221B
by Deb Zorski
Summary: 221 stories, 221 words each, ending in one "B" word. New and improved version, including Granada, Guy Ritchie, and BBC versions!
1. Blow

As the snow fell thickly on that frozen January evening and the fire warmed us nicely, the mood was anything but cheery inside our sitting room; Holmes' face was clouded and dark.

"Something the matter?" I ventured to ask him.

"The snow." he answered disdainfully, pipe held tightly between his teeth as he struck a match.

"Yes, well I am aware you don't enjoy the cold-"

"It's the irrational form of the blasted weather!" he grumbled, leaning back in his chair. "There's no method to its creation! It is always random!"

"But beautiful, Holmes, you can't deny that." I smiled.

He snorted at my sentiment. "Until it freezes over."

I was about to try to divert his gloominess when a loud crash interrupted us. We raced downstairs to the front door to find Mrs. Hudson sprawled on the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson! What happened?" I questioned as I helped her to a chair.

"The ice, Dr. Watson! I've had such a bad fall out there!" she cried. "I'm not hurt, only shaken."

"I'll get you a drink." I offered, hurrying into the kitchen.

"Watson, your beautiful snow has become a danger-" Holmes fell silent as I emerged carrying a cake.

"Candles?" Holmes asked, unimpressed.

I shared a smile with Mrs. Hudson, knowing our plan had worked perfectly. "Make a wish and blow."


	2. Bedlam

_A/N: "Bedlam" refers to the commonly known nickname of Bethlem Royal Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in London. Throughout its history, Bedlam was known for its cruel mistreatment of the insane patients who stayed there, as well as the antics of the patients themselves. The word "bedlam"means uproar and confusion. Guy Ritchie universe._

* * *

I was very uneasy when entering the building, despite the uniformed officer that greeted Holmes and I. Holmes left immediately after a brief handshake, heading down the hall and leaving me to the guard. I nodded to him solemnly, diving right into the particulars of the case, "Have there been other breakouts?"

He snorted in disgust. "Certainly not. Security stepped up right after this one happened."

"We were informed that there were no suspects in her disappearance-" I continued.

The guard laughed bitterly. "Not any outside suspects, perhaps. But there are plenty in here who would snatch her away."

"If you suspect them," I began cautiously, "why haven't any women been on further lockdown?"

The guard pointed down the hall to a door on the right, bolted tightly. "Our biggest loony is in there. Nearly scratched my eyes out the other day."

Right before our eyes, the heavily locked door was blown off its hinges in a giant explosion. The guard beside me blew his whistle, as another guard went in to sedate the cellmate. As the smoke cleared I saw Holmes sitting against the wall, smudged and bruised, scratch marks on his face. A decently-sized hole lay in the brick wall.

I crossed my arms and smirked at him. "Ah, Holmes, only you could cause the most chaos in Bedlam."


	3. Border

I had just returned from a very long day of my medical rounds in the neighborhood. Apparently summer was the best time to break limbs and come down with stubborn, lingering infections from those broken limbs. I gratefully accepted Mrs. Hudson's offer of tea and sat at the breakfast table, for it was too hot to climb the stairs to my own room and Holmes appeared to have a client in the sitting room, judging by the peculiar silence. I was left to my own thoughts while relaxing there, thinking about how much more relaxed I would be had I been sharing the sitting room with my friend; even listening to him ramble on about his latest tobacco ash study would be welcome relief after the day I had endured.

The silence was suddenly shattered by a gunshot, echoing from right upstairs. Swallowing a curse at having upset my tea onto my lap, I rushed upstairs and threw open the sitting room door. I found Holmes without a client and calmly reloading his pistol, taking aim near the ceiling. Looking up I saw one small bullet hole marking the wallpaper.

"Holmes!" I chastised sternly as he looked up with indifference. "I hardly think Mrs. Hudson will consider changing her décor to your liking, even if you insist on shooting the border!"


	4. Brightly

I crept alongside Holmes in the alleyway, careful to keep low and hidden amidst the shadows. "Holmes, I must insist-"

"Not a word! I instructed you to remain absolutely silent, Doctor!" the edge on his tongue was razor-sharp in reprimanding me. I knew I was interrupting his method on what could be his greatest case yet, but it was pressing.

"Holmes, honestly, we've been out here for hours and no one has moved from that house!"

"Patience, dear Doctor." Holmes urged with a palm in front of me to keep me in my place. "Our efforts are not in vain."

"How in God's name can you be assured of that!?" I exclaimed. "It is the middle of the night, it is absolutely freezing, and you insist on continuing to sit here, in plain view of our suspected murderer? Holmes, this is entirely too dangerous -"

"My dear doctor," Holmes' tone had a slight growl on the end of it. "I have never known you to run from danger. Why should you do so now?"

The lane was suddenly flooded with light, preventing my response. Before I realized, Holmes was on his feet and tackling the illumination's source. There was a groan of surprise and a crashing of a lantern. I heard Holmes hissing angrily, "Lestrade! _Must _your lantern shine so brightly!?"


	5. Better

_My darling Mary is dead. Every day I have to remind myself of this devastating fact to truly appreciate Holmes' return. Back from being presumably dead (yet through amazing feats he somehow escaped even that), I was initially shocked at my friend's return. Anyone would feel the same if they saw a presumed dead man standing directly in front of them, arms outstretched in greeting and donning a smile as if he were never gone at all! And while Holmes' rapid return to his cases - and thus, the return of our professional partnership - have helped me to escape my melancholy, it is only temporary. When the workday has ceased and the case is solved, my nights are lonely and intolerable once again. My heart aches and my soul cries out. She is never coming back to me- _

The pen clattered against the desktop as I wearily dropped my head into my hands, sighing slowly to try and compose myself enough to finish my writing. Such an act held obvious meaning for Holmes as he rose from his chemistry table. Yet, without so much as a glance between us, I soon heard the soothing notes of one of my favorite compositions from my friend's lithe violin. I picked up my pen again.

_Yet, somehow, I realize things will get better._


	6. Bill

Our dessert had been on the table for twenty minutes and I was feeling frustrated at my failed attempts to engage Holmes. The courses had been excellent, the atmosphere inviting, and yet Holmes sat with his eyes fixed on a table behind me.

"Honestly, Holmes, I can deduce nothing from where you are looking at!" I told him, looking again at the man at whom he pointedly stared. "If you are that disinterested in finishing dinner, perhaps we had better leave." My friend was still staring, elbows coming to rest on the tabletop and fingers tented as he studied further. "Or perhaps I will leave alone." I considered aloud.

The man in question started choking on his dinner, his coughing breaking the calm quiet of the dining room. I rushed over to help him but upon hearing a collective gasp, looked up to see Holmes tackling our waiter to the floor.

"I demand you release the poison you sprinkled on that man's dinner!" Holmes ordered, holding the waiter's wrist tightly as his hand lay trapped in the inner pocket of his uniformed vest. The waiter was trembling in fear under Holmes' steady grip and cold scrutiny, and as I finally cleared the man's airway of the offending dinner roll, the waiter withdrew his threat: an innocent piece of paper, our bill.


	7. Baby

I shook my head and sighed as I exited the birthing room. The mother had already been delirious with fever when the labor had begun, and neither mother nor son made it through the process alive. As the nurse took care of the bodies it was my cheerless task to inform the husband of such terrible news. The thunderstorm that boomed outside did nothing to help motivate me.

"Mr. Dering," I began solemnly as the young man jumped to his feet upon my entrance, eyes alight with hope of good news. "We did all we could, but the stress of it all was too much." I saw his hope extinguish immediately, as instantly as her life had gone out only moments ago. "I'm very sorry." I put one hand on the man's shoulder as he averted my eyes, his own filling with tears.

I dreaded his next question, and had hoped to escape this dreadful meeting before he could ask it to me. The crack in his voice made my heart bleed for him, for I knew I could do nothing for a dead wife, and less for the stillborn that killed her. "Doctor…" the man trailed hesitantly with a small sniffle, and I turned to face him with a heavy sigh of my own. "My son…. How is the baby?"


	8. Blizzard

I shivered from the cold upon entering Baker Street, trudging up the seventeen stairs while the snow melted from my coat. I found Holmes gazing out the window in the sitting room, large puffs of blue smoke from his pipe rising toward the ceiling.

"Have you been just standing there all day?" I asked him incredulously.

"It has a strangely calming effect, Watson, even despite watching passers-by slip and fall. The falling snow is rather… intoxicating." he murmured. I suspected my friend of being intoxicated by far worse than the natural world, especially if he had been bored all day. I hurriedly distracted him by returning our conversation to his work. "I trust you've solved a difficult case then?"

"The case I am working on presently is most engaging." I heard a muffled chuckle as more smoke rose from my friend's silhouette. "The case of missing Mrs. Hudson. More importantly, of our missing dinner."

"Missing? Holmes, how long-" a knock from downstairs interrupted me and I hurried to get it. A messenger boy handed me a telegram, informing me the snowstorm was growing steadily worse. I read the message hastily, sighing when I realized Holmes and I were on our own in making dinner. I tossed the open telegram on the table: ALL TRAINS STOPPED. MRS. H STUCK IN KENT. BLIZZARD.


	9. Blackened

_A/N: 2009 film version for this chapter. A lover's quarrel. Happy Valentine's. _

* * *

For Holmes, it was a rational argument, one easily solved by logic. The case had been delayed, which postponed his arrival back to London. At the end of the day, he was a professional, and his work must come as his first priority.

Irene did not see it that way.

She was only concerned with his absence, his secrecy, and his complete lack of communication. She failed to see the truth behind his actions, of how he protected her the whole time. Criminals who knew of their intimacy used it as leverage against Holmes, and he would not allow her harm. It was exhausting him to try, again, to explain himself. Not to mention boiling his temper.

"I have told you already, Irene-"

"I know what's been said, but nothing fits." She emphasized in clipped tones. "You were gone for six days!"

"You were gone for years when you left for America." Holmes ripped open her old wound nonchalantly. "When you became Mrs. Godfrey Norton."

"I did that out of necessity, Sherlock,"

"Necessity… hum. I wonder," he mused, "was it also necessary to ruthlessly divorce him and come crawling back to London? Irene Adler, world-class criminal, only manipulates her men. Why love when you can deceive?"

Holmes witnessed Irene leave in a huff, but only through a half-closed eye, now blackened.


	10. Broken

Over the years of my close association with Sherlock Holmes, my own skills of observation and deduction have become sharper simply by applying his methods. The smallest details are often the most significant, as he often reminds me, yet my attachment to emotion and sentiment that he so despises have given me an advantage. I see what is obscured by his calculating logic simply by observing a person's eyes. They reveal quite a lot about motive, events, and what usually remains unsaid. Last week, Holmes' eyes were glassy. I should have told him then to take a few days off but instead I watched him overwork himself, finally forced to call off a case when he fainted this afternoon.

I know he will recover, even though his fever is drastically high and his shivering so violent he barely keeps on the blanket that covers him. The vigil will take all night at the least, of my trying to cure him so he can finally get some much-needed rest. He will once again believe himself infallible and return to a rigorous pace of solving cases. I try to assure myself of all these truths, yet worry clouds my logic as he whimpers. I conclude his fever is far too high.

I wish my friend could fix himself without first becoming completely broken.


	11. Bacillicide

_**A/N:** 1. **Ribes rubrum** is the scientific name for red currants. _

_ 2. "Bacillicide" means "the killing of berries"_

_ 3. This chapter dedicated to my very own Watson, **maghaseology**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"Watson, look here!" he cried, bending closer to a single leaf identical to all the others on the bush. "The color is most unusual…"

"Green, Holmes, is unusual?"

"For this early in the season. However, if the leaves are any indication," he started pushing aside branches, searching. "Aha! _Ribes rubrum_!" He held up a tiny red sphere in front of his eyes, inspecting it carefully.

"All that for just one berry?" I inquired skeptically as he popped the fruit in his mouth. "Holmes, spit that out!" I reprimanded just as he swallowed, turning pale in doing so. When he started coughing I realized the berry was poisonous. I rushed behind him and gripped his abdomen, pressing quickly upward to try and expel the fruit from my friend.

"Watson!" I let him go and watched him double over, hearing a shaky hiss of breath.

"Holmes! Are you-" my concern instantly vanished when I saw him shaking with laughter. He held a handful of the dreaded things out to me, some oozing juice into his hand but otherwise appearing harmless.

"Perfectly ripe." he assessed. "Would you like one?"

I grabbed the berries from his hand and threw them at him, pushing him into the berry bush and arming myself with more to throw.

"Watson, stop!" Holmes cried while shielding himself. "You're committing bacillicide!"


	12. Bed

9 am:

We were to board the early train to resolve a recent string of strange murders, and Holmes had been so intently focused on the fact that I was surprised to find him still in bed.

"Holmes?" I sighed as I watched him roll over; he hated mornings. "You must get up or we'll miss the train." I went over to his side, "The case?" I hoped that reminder would give him momentum. He was unusually pale. I laid the back of my hand on his exposed cheek. "You're warm, Holmes."

"I am _not_."

"Sit up. I'll find my thermometer and send off a telegram to postpone the case."

"You will do nothing of the sort. The client has been waiting for days and we are needed." He threw off the blankets, albeit with a shudder, trying to get out of bed.

"Overworking yourself will do you no good-"

"We are _needed_, Watson."

2 pm: 

I caught Holmes' arm when he stumbled. "Holmes," I began worriedly, noticing a dull tiredness in his eyes beneath his deerstalker.

"I am _fine_, Watson." he insisted, walking ahead without my help.

12 am:

"Perhaps," my friend noted quietly as I helped him into bed after his collapse on our guest's front steps. "I am a bit ill."

"This time, you are staying in bed."


	13. Blue

All of London slept through the night as a torrential rainstorm soaked the city. It drenched the rooftops in sheets, holding an eerie sheen amidst the streetlamps, giving them strange halos of light reflected in raindrops. Rivers of icy water ran alongside every curb, pooling at the corners of streets and oozing into lakes that threatened to flood. But all the windows in all the houses were dark, ignoring such misery in favor of warm beds and peaceful sleep. All except for one, where the gaslight illuminated a single face, etched with haggard lines and shadows of sleeplessness. Plagued by insomnia, which had haunted him for weeks on end, Holmes stared sullenly out at the rain as he accepted yet another sleepless night.

All of his usual methods had failed. His chemistry table did not become tiresome, even after several hours of lengthy and dull experiments. A tumbler of brandy and many pipes had no lethargic effect, despite a warm fire to accompany them. He turned to the rain in desperation; it only worked to depress him, the dark streets and empty windows making him painfully aware that he was the only one awake, and alone, in the entire city,

He noticed, however, as he finally succumbed to exhaustion, that the dawning sky after the storm was a beautiful beryl blue.


	14. Butterfly

_A/N: Dedicated to the 2009 CTG cast of Hound... I wish we could do it again RIGHT NOW for old times' sake. Aloha, Hounds!_

* * *

Jack Stapleton moved quickly about the marshland of the moor, keeping his wits about him regarding the treacherous terrain. One false step meant sure death, a slow suffocation and drowning in the murky mire with no one around for miles to hear any screams. Yet Jack's eyes never wavered from the fluttering trophy before him. He was determined to catch the elusive creature this time, and nothing would stop him.

This particular specimen was a Painted Lady butterfly, and had been taunting Jack for days on end. It had a very erratic flight pattern, one that seemed to mock him mercilessly with various escape routes. But he could play the game just as well: chasing ruthlessly in hot pursuit, staying on the path of twists and turns until finally catching his prize. At long last, he would finally win, and no one would mock him again. He would live in notorious infamy for his grand capture of such a prized specimen.

There was a certain gleam in Stapleton's eye that made Watson uneasy the day they spoke on the moor, and he hastened to write Holmes of what his instincts were warning him of. The very same gleam Holmes noticed from his hiding place as he watched Stapleton's afternoon chase. Holmes knew it at once: Stapleton's real prize was no butterfly.


	15. Bachelor

He kissed her hello, right there on the sidewalk for the world to see. She blushed and he smiled. They joined hands, lacing their fingers together, and strolled in the direction of the park. The romance was new, as she was still blushing at his every gesture and he was still awkwardly nervous about being a gentleman in order to impress her. The two were infatuated with one another, completely in love with being in love. It was obvious in the way he spoke about her to friends or how her eyes sparkled when she read over his love letters. They always smiled, exuding joy and an unprecedented zest for life as love enriched their daily experience.

Holmes scowled as he turned away from the window while Watson and Miss Morstan walked away hand in hand. He looked up to see an empty sitting room, burying his feelings of abandonment with a forced gulp. That woman was stealing away his Watson, turning him into even more of a sentimental sap.

"A prime example of how love creates fools." he declared to the fire crackling in the grate as he picked up his violin. He scoffed at the very idea. "Love clouds the brain and confuses the judgment." That part was elementary. "It is precisely why I will always remain a bachelor."


	16. Books

"Holmes!" I chastised firmly, stopping him dead in his tracks as he wielded an axe against a bookshelf full of law encyclopedias. We were examining a case in an eccentric's mansion, full of various odd collections. He must have found the axe somewhere, perhaps next to the taxidermied lion standing on its haunches in the great hall. "There must be another way."

"More direct than an axe? Hardly." He held it up to swing, and I plucked it from his grip.

"You will have to find it. Look in the books. We are in a library." I grinned.

My simple jest sparked an idea, as I saw his eyes brighten. Suddenly he was dashing down the spiral staircase to the first floor of the library. He examined all the shelves before choosing one and extracting a book. He dashed to another set of shelves, exchanging the one he carried for another. He dashed up to my level, then back down again repeatedly, until he carried one grey philosophy volume. We both returned to the original bookcase as he considered the book's placement.

"Ah," he said simply, placing it near the end of the second shelf. The entire bookcase slid aside to reveal a secret room. He smirked at me. "Watson, I daresay you are an expert in the power of books."


	17. Burn

An experiment had gone awry, but luckily I was home alone when it happened. I had managed to mop up what chemicals had exploded all over the table and carpet by grabbing a rag quickly, so I would not have to face the wrath of Mrs. Hudson when she returned. After cleaning up sufficiently, I sat down with a new beaker to begin the experiment anew. That was the last time I went to answer the front door when there were more important things to attend to.

Mrs. Hudson came back first, allowing Watson upstairs when he arrived from his patients. "Ah, here's where I left it. I tore my rooms apart looking for this." Watson informed as he picked up the rag I had used to clean up the chemical spill. It was Watson's dress shirt, not a rag.

"I thought it didn't fit properly?" I asked, trying to dissuade him.

"It fits fine, and since my rounds were hurried I'd enjoy changing into a fresh shirt. Objections?"

"None." He was agitated, I noticed, probably at the assumption that I had stolen his shirt… again. He would be far more irritated in a few seconds. I braced myself for a cry of agony.

"Holmes," he began, as I noticed him break out into a sweat. "Why does my shoulder burn?"


	18. Blood

_The crashing sound of waterfalls and the smell of dampened air. I had returned to Reichenbach, that dreadful place where I had fought Moriarty before. The very fiend himself had me pinned against the mountainous crag, choking me by my own collar. His grin sharpened as he saw me coughing, struggling to breathe._

_"You will not win, Sherlock Holmes." he threatened with a menacing gleam in his eye. "If you can return from the dead, then so can I. But my mission will be completed-" he bashed my head against a sharp rock and I suddenly felt a wetness trickling down the back of my neck. "I will see it through this time." he warned me as I started growing dizzy, my head bobbing to my chest and back up again as though I were fighting off sleep. I struggled to stay conscious. "I will enjoy watching your lifeless body cascade into the abyss." he informed me callously as I felt my body falling._

I jolted awake with a startled gasp, feeling as though I had landed suddenly back into my own body. I sat up quickly, looking around in the dark to realize I was safely in my bed at Baker Street. My breathing grew regular as I reached up behind my head and squinted at my fingertips. No blood.


	19. Box

_A/N: Based on "Dying Detective," my #1 favorite from the canon._

* * *

The sitting room at Baker Street, with its unusually dim lighting and eerie quiet, had all the necessary funereal touches for its sole inhabitant. I shuddered as I heard Holmes' labored breathing interrupted with moans of pain. I was his doctor as well as his friend, and it was my job to heal him.

"Stay back, Watson!" he cried and repeatedly pushed me away, like a stubborn child who needs help but refuses to accept it. "It is contagious by touch, don't you understand?"

"Holmes, you are very ill. Quite delirious. How can I help you get better if I can't even touch you?"

He eluded my question and was off wandering again in ramblings of delirium. I mopped his high forehead with a tepid washcloth, my brow furrowing in concern at his pallid face and trembling hands. I had never seen him this ill before, and I felt absolutely helpless against his refusals. I sighed and stood, crossing to the fireplace, trying to think of who I could call among my medical associates. Mrs. Hudson was right, Sherlock Holmes was dying. I would not idly stand by to watch it happen.

In a rush of sudden strength usually not seen in the desperately ill, Holmes pinned me against the wall in a panic when I noticed the small ivory box.


	20. Bugs

For once it was Watson acting peculiar and Holmes arching one eyebrow at his actions. As Holmes thew his coat on a nearby chair in the sitting room, he stopped to watch as Watson pounced on hands and knees to trap something under an upside-down teacup.

"Hum," he mused, pulling out his pocket watch. "5:17 pm. Watson has officially lost his sanity."

"Oh! Holmes!" Watson looked up with a surprised smile. When he realized his hands were still glued on the teacup trap, he looked a bit sheepish. "I didn't know when to expect you, so I thought it best to wait and-"

"Watson, what are you doing?" Holmes inquired, just in time to watch Watson transfer whatever was under the teacup to a small cardboard box, shutting it tightly. Watson finally heaved a sigh of relief.

"I take a small guilty pleasure in knowing they're starving to death in that little box." Watson admitted contentedly.

"At least they're not becoming cannibalistic." Holmes noticed as he peeked into the tiny chamber, the one live prisoner innocently crawling among two other corpses. "Do we have an infestation?"

"If we do, it would be best if we took care of it ourselves. You and I cannot afford an increase in rent from Mrs. Hudson's irritation." Watson sighed. "How I hate these blasted bugs."


	21. Bottle

_A/N: Many thanks for all the reviews. I thrive on your feedback and appreciate all your comments. Please keep them coming! That said, this chapter goes out to fulfill **Mam'zelleCombeferre**'s request of a continuation of "bug."_

_Sidebar: I take requests, either for B words or plot bunnies (so thanks, Mam'zelle, for getting the ball rolling!). PM or leave as review, but please note I will stay true to my mission and will not be creating chapters-long mini-arcs. 3 connected chapters max is my limit. And the "bug" ends here._

* * *

It was a giant contraption that spanned the entirety of the sitting room, obscuring any possible path from the doorway where I was trapped. I could do nothing else but simply stare at this monstrosity, which mutated from Holmes' chemistry set into something far more complex. What began as glass tubing and pipettes soon involved couch cushions and stacks of books placed at weird angles to form some sort of sequence.

"Holmes!" I fumed upon seeing him pop up from the floor where he had been crawling on hands and knees. "You've taken some of my notebooks to create your ridiculous machine! What the devil do you think you're doing?"

He smiled as he lit a match, holding it to his pipe, "Helping you." He blew a puff of smoke at a makeshift windmill created from old newspapers, which turned just enough to spring a mousetrap, knocking over a piece of coal into a beaker. When that filled with a chemical and was heated, the twine above it burned away, releasing the sharpened letter opener to fly across the room like a spear and cut a candle clean off the neck of a glass bottle. I heard a small _plink_ and Holmes held it proudly up to me: another bug captured.

"Well, Watson… how's that for a message in a bottle?"


	22. Brains

_A/N: SH 2009 movie-verse.... because the canon Watson would never be so cruel. So I hope._

_This one unexpectedly turned into a movie-verse fic. It was originally intended as a re-enactment of my Saturday morning. Migraines are hell, I need better meds. And a sympathetic friend like Watson._

* * *

"Holmes."

_It is a statement, not a question. And yet, he expects a response._

"Holmes, get up."

_I can hardly lift my head without throbbing pain, let alone my entire body._

An annoyed sigh, even with a small growl of frustration tacked on the end. "That's quite enough, don't you think?" A merciless rustling as he throws open the curtains and sunlight floods my bedroom.

_Do. Not. Open. Eyes. I'm safely burrowed away from the light. All I have to do is stay and wish for Watson's sudden affliction of laryngitis so as to stop the sound._

"They're relying on you!" He reminds me, shouting. I wince, holding back a whimper of pain.

"Watson," I beg weakly, muffled from within my overly warm cocoon. "Please, you must stop yelling-"

"I'm angry!" He explodes and I groan, hands flying to my forehead to hold the throbbing behind it. It feels like my skull is splitting wide open.

_Defensive mode. Block all attacks._

"You cannot keep clients waiting just because you want to sleep! Your so-called insomnia is self-inflicted, no, self-indulgent!" He rolls me onto my back so I face upwards. "Now I have to force you-" he stops at once, realizing I truly am ill.

"You're dreadfully pale, Holmes…"

"A terrible headache." I confess in a whisper. "The price for my brains."


	23. Beaucoup

Holmes and I were constantly exhausted and overworked but had no time for a holiday to recover, and so we pressed on week after week. No matter how many hours of sleep we both got, morning always came along far too quickly, and with it all our separate responsibilities: my patients and his cases. We soon found ourselves pale and haggard, wondering how we managed to stay standing, as we entertained a new client.

She was a young Frenchwoman who had come with her translator, which was fortunate for me since I did not speak the language. When Holmes asked her why she had sought him out, an English detective instead of the French police, she informed us that they were bumbling fools who botched many investigations. I smirked at the similarities between our countries.

Halfway through her story she suddenly stopped, observing me briefly and then staring at Holmes, narrowing her eyes to study him."Ils ont l'air de fatigué." she remarked to her translator, brows knitted with worry. She looked at Holmes with wide eyes. "Es-tu malade?" I could tell she was very concerned, for emotions often transcend language.

I saw my friend's eyes soften for a brief moment in understanding and appreciation. "Tous les deux." Holmes answered with a weak smile, motioning to me and back to himself. "Beaucoup."

* * *

_A/N: The following are translation notes:_

_1. "Ils ont l'air de fatigué." = "They look tired"_

_2. "Es-tu malade?" = "Are you sick?"_

_3. "Tous les deux."= "Both of us."_

_4. "Beaucoup." = "Badly." (here, meaning that they are suffering badly... quite obviously from being overworked)_


	24. Ball

_A/N: Part flashback and part backstory: high school Holmes and Watson. Will be a three-part mini. ~DZ~_

* * *

As a strapping young man of seventeen, Watson was stronger than he looked. Or perhaps Holmes, being so thin, was as light as he appeared. At any rate, it was exceedingly easy for Watson to hoist Holmes over one shoulder and carry him down the hallway of the high school they attended.

"Watson, I demand you put me down at once!"

"Sorry, Holmes," Watson didn't bother trying to hide his smirk. "Your chemistry teacher told me to get you to class by any means necessary."

"The class is completely _un_necessary and I'm currently in the middle of a case!" Holmes urged with a balled fist to Watson's back. "The cheerleaders_ need_ me!" Watson shook his head as they reached the chemistry lab. The door opened too quickly and hit Watson in the eye, causing him to stumble back and allowing Holmes to jump out of his grip and race down the hallway. Watson looked ruefully after his friend as he was left to deal with the apologies of the girl who clumsily blacked his eye.

Holmes' client was the head cheerleader; she turned five backward cartwheels in rapid succession, and grinned at Holmes once she stood upright again. He didn't have time to return her charm, as he was struck on the back of the head by a rogue cricket ball.


	25. Blush

Holmes regained consciousness slowly and opened his eyes. He lay on his back in the grass with a sweater underneath his head for a pillow. A beautiful girl looked down at him, her face fraught with worry but softening to a smile as he woke up. She was the head cheerleader that was practicing before. More importantly, she was his client. And here he was, being knocked unconscious by flying sport balls and relying on her to play his nurse. How professional of him.

"That looked like it hit you pretty hard," she assessed, eyes glancing at the cricket ball but quickly back upon his face. "Are you alright?"

"You're American." Holmes noticed as he slowly sat up. She smiled.

"I'm Irene Adler, Mr. Holmes. It's good to meet you… Well, not like this of course." She chuckled and rolled her eyes, melting away his embarrassment. "You'll still take my case? The spring formal is only a few weeks away and I've got to figure out if John is cheating on me."

He looked into her eyes solemnly. "I can assure you, Miss Adler, that I will solve his infidelity. And your name will not once be mentioned."

She grinned and clasped his hands in her own, kissing his cheek. "Thank you!"

It was the only time he would ever blush.


	26. Beaten

_A/N: Holmes, as a novice detective, has all the drive he needs but not much stakeout technique just yet. I have to say that writing this arc was a lot of fun... here's the last chapter. ~DZ~_

* * *

Holmes had been secreted outside the high school for hours. He winced at the cramp in his legs as he stretched them, when he heard a rustle from behind. In his dash to hide again, his shoe slipped in the mud and his ankle twisted painfully as he slid into a sitting position. He bit his lip to keep himself quiet as he heard Irene Adler's voice.

"Making him _think_ you were cheating on me kept him busy enough so he'd be out of our hair."

"Good." A strong male voice replied. "I don't need a loner nerd coming after my girlfriend."

"I figured him out well enough to throw him off track." Irene gloated with a smug smile evident in her voice. "It was so easy."

Holmes got to his feet, limping all the way back to the school. He held himself up by leaning on a wall, when Watson found him.

"Holmes! Finally! Where have you been all day? And why are you limping?"

"Adler's case was a trick to keep me out of her way." Holmes groaned as he took a step, quickly faltering. Watson hurried to steady his friend.

"I wouldn't worry, Holmes." Watson smiled as he slung Holmes' arm around his own shoulder. "When it comes to women, all men have once or twice been beaten."


	27. Bullet

This case had gone on long enough, and would have been significantly shorter if Lestrade hadn't employed his useless officers to consistently let the murderer escape. Then Holmes wouldn't always be on the chase at all hours of the night, and the murderer would already be arrested. It was true that he always played the game for the game's own sake, he hadn't foreseen this particular ending: alleyway shootout, and he unarmed.

However, if he was willing to play the game, then he had to see it through to its logical conclusion. He stood tall and locked eyes with his opponent, just as his enemy's gun was cocked. Holmes stood bravely, even daring to puff his chest out to increase the target area. He would face his adversary directly, to prove the power of justice. He saw the glint of a smirk on the criminal's face, and a low chuckle.

"You are a _willing_ target? You are a fool!"

He said nothing as the other man took aim, a gruesome triumphant sneer gleaming under the lamplight. Holmes kept his eyes locked with the criminal's; surely the other would back down. This man could murder, but only the innocent and helpless, not one who was giving him a direct challenge. He continued standing tall, eyes never wavering, bracing himself for the bullet.


	28. Brothers

_A/N: continuance of the last. I would never leave my readers in the dark!_

* * *

Holmes was so focused on the path of the bullet he hardly noticed when Watson interrupted it, tackling them both to the ground. Watson shot at the murderer as he fell but missed, allowing for quick escape while he and Holmes both bled onto the cold pavement.

"Watson, what on earth were you thinking?" Holmes gasped as he rolled onto his side to try and sit up. The bullet had grazed his forearm and he cradled it close to his chest as it stung. When Holmes realized his hand was covered in blood not his own, his breath hitched in panic.

"Watson," he tried to keep his voice even despite his own rising panic. "Can you hear me? You're bleeding everywhere." The bullet intended for Holmes' chest found a home in Watson's instead, and Watson wasn't responding to Holmes' questions. Holmes shook Watson's shoulder, his grip more of a cling than a firm shaking. "Watson!"

His friend finally opened his eyes, coughing harshly. Holmes' eyes widened when he saw a spatter of blood on the edge of Watson's mouth.

"Watson, how could you be so stupidly heroic? I am not necessary for you to risk your very life for!"

"Holmes, you and I?" Watson smiled weakly as he felt the last of his energy leave him. "We're as close as brothers."


	29. Bedside

_A/N: continuance of the last. It feels unfinished ending here... comment/PM if you agree. I will gladly add more (I enjoy hurt/comfort Holmes and Watson). _

_An additional note: I am always up for adopting plot bunnies/suggestions._

* * *

Holmes awoke with a cry, covered in sweat. He sat up, eyes darting wildly trying to discern where he was, chest heaving with every breath. The last few wispy threads of that terrible dream faded away slower than he would have liked. The feeling of Watson's body next to his, covered in the sticky wetness of their blood as his friend lay helpless and dying… Holmes shook his head vehemently to clear such images, groaning softly when it only produced a throbbing headache.

His eyes adjusting to the dark, he now recognized his own bedroom in Baker Street. Things were out of place: clothes strewn about, Watson's medical bag in the corner, and an untouched tea tray on the table. He would usually leave this kind of mess for the sitting room, not his bedroom. Puzzled, he lay down again and noticed Watson's thermometer alongside a glass of water and pills on the side table. How long had he been so ill? And why couldn't he remember it happening to begin with?

Illness! Holmes suddenly panicked as he rolled onto his other side, ready to spring up in an instant to find Watson alive and in the flesh. He hardly had time to sit up however, for there was Watson keeping his vigil, asleep in an armchair by Holmes' bedside.


	30. Breathe

_A/N: continuance of the last. There is absolutely NO character death. Only character suffering. I promise things will get better for Holmes.... but first they have to get worse. Thankfully Watson is there._

* * *

Holmes realized his chance in seeing his friend nearby: Watson would have the answers he needed.

"Watson, how long has this been going on?" His demand sounded feeble at best.

"Holmes..." Watson blinked a few times in awakening, looking confused a moment, until he broke into a relieved smile. "You're awake!" Watson half-laughed and half-sighed as the joy of that small truth quickly left him. Holmes' eyes were still glassy, his face deathly pale with the exception of angry red cheeks and a sweat-beaded brow. "Though I must admit I don't quite know how. Your fever-"

"Is precisely the issue at hand." Holmes interrupted. "How did this happen?"

Watson frowned deeply as he reached for a washcloth and a pitcher of cold water. "You've been unconscious for days. There's a terrible flu circulating the city. Your fever's held at 102 tonight alone."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively but Watson caught his wrist to take his pulse. Holmes didn't struggle in escaping his grip, a sure sign of his illness. "Trifles."

"Hardly. We're facing an epidemic that's already affected hundreds." Watson snapped to attention when his friend started in on a harsh coughing fit.

"Watson," he rasped, "you sound worried."

The doctor's eyes darted to the floor as Holmes continued, a desperate gasp between each series of coughs. "Just try to breathe."


	31. Blanket

_A/N: continuance of the last_

* * *

Holmes drifted in and out of delirium over the next several days as his fever rose and fell. The dreams were still just as vivid, and the recurring one of Watson's death often left him shedding tears. Yet, every time he awoke in fear and confusion at what seemed so real, Watson was there with a cool washcloth, dispelling the nightmares and offering pain medication.

Except for one night when Holmes awoke quietly, craning his neck to hear soft voices in the hall.

"His fever comes and goes, he won't get any real rest until it breaks and he can sleep for a full night." Watson yawned briefly.

"You won't be any good to him, doctor, if you don't take care of yourself." Mrs. Hudson motherly reminded.

"He's my only concern right now. I have to keep his fever under control."

"I know Mr. Holmes wouldn't like it, but perhaps we should send him to hospital." Mrs. Hudson worried. "So many others have become dangerously ill."

"If we send him to the hospital there'll be absolutely no chance at him getting any rest. He'll stay here. Keep getting him water, I'll do the rest."

Holmes knew it was time to repay the doctor's favor as he heard a hacking cough the next day and watched Watson curl up in a blanket.


	32. Blackness

_A/N: continuance of the last._

* * *

The only problem with caring for Watson was that Holmes himself felt no better.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson entered with a tea tray at Dr. Watson's request and saw the detective sitting in an armchair. Holmes emitted a huge sneeze, searching for a handkerchief in the folds of his dressing gown. "You should be in bed if you feel so terribly."

"Watson needs me."

"Dr. Watson is fast asleep," Mrs. Hudson gestured to the unconscious doctor in bed beside Holmes. "As you should be." She could clearly see as he settled further in the chair that sleep was the last thing he intended to do. She thrust a cup of tea into Holmes' hands as she heard him cough deeply. "Drink." she ordered, watching him refuse one sip and set it on the table beside him. She sighed before picking it up herself and forcing it to his lips, making sure he drank. "You will find, Mr. Holmes, that I am often just as stubborn as you are." She set the teacup in his hands even as he sputtered. "Drink it down."

Under the watchful eye of his landlady, Holmes did as instructed, albeit reluctantly. He wasn't sure, however, if he actually heard her close the door so softly or if he merely dreamed it as his world faded into blackness.


	33. Best

_A/N: continuance of the last, final chapter in the flu epidemic mini-arc. Although this might turn into a longer story in the future..._

* * *

Holmes awoke in his own bed the next morning, feeling surprisingly cool. His headaches were down to a dull throb and the coughs were minimal. The only thing left to be explained was why Watson stared at him, laying nearby in his own couch-turned-bed. Holmes' eyes narrowed. "You drugged the tea."

Watson smiled smugly. "We had to." Holmes winced. Watson's voice sounded as though he'd gargled with gravel. "It was the only way to get you to rest. I had to make sure you were on your way to wellness before I could collapse." Watson smirked.

"I appreciate you waiting for me." Holmes nodded, looking up as Mrs. Hudson entered with tea. "Don't trust it Watson," he warned, eyeing their landlady.

"Commenting on my cooking already, Mr. Holmes? You must be feeling better." Mrs. Hudson slipped a thermometer into Watson's mouth. Holmes scoffed.

"Honestly, Watson, having her baby you that way?"

"It's much easier than drugging his drink to get him to take care of himself." Mrs. Hudson said pointedly and Holmes snuggled back into bed with a snort. She frowned, finally looking at the thermometer. "A day of rest for both of you, then, and I'll have no arguments on the fact."

Watson smiled, looking over just as Holmes smirked. "She always knows how to keep us at our best."


	34. Basil

_A/N: regular 221B's resume. This one goes out to **Lemon Zinger**, who wants a bit of humor after such an angsty arc. Basil of Baker Street belongs to Eve Titus as per children's literature, and Disney in film.  
_

* * *

I was stuck on a dead end of a case for days when the body was surprisingly absent at the murder scene. The culprit was crafty: no body, no bloodstains, no prints of any kind. The only thing he did leave behind was a smell of smoke in a room without a fireplace. When the telltale tobacco ash was missing I checked the kitchen, and caused two servant girls to faint when I pulled out the charred remains of the victim from the wood-burning country stove.

Naturally being in high spirits, I longed for a celebratory dinner with Watson upon my arrival back to Baker Street. Bursting through our sitting room door, I found him hunched in a corner, mumbling to himself.

"Watson, I say, have you missed me so much you must now imagine my presence?" I chuckled. "Abandon such delusions and join me for dinner at Simpson's. I will even endure sharing a bottle of sherry to celebrate my latest success. On my tab."

"No, no, that's not at all necessary." He finally answered, addressing the corner of the room. "I'd be happy to-"

"Watson?"

"Holmes," the good doctor chuckled as he stood and turned. He held a mouse which stood erect on its hind legs, donned in a cravat and vest, smiling proudly up at me. "Meet Basil."


	35. Boat

_A/N: A response to **Lemon Zinger**'s request: "A character goes for an unexpected swim in the Thames- doesn't have to be Holmes or Watson."_

_

* * *

_

Lestrade hated rookies, particularly when he was responsible for training them. _"It should be taken as a compliment, Inspector, to your depth of knowledge and experience on the force,"_ so the Chief's voice in his head tried to remind him. That was months ago, when he stupidly agreed to take on someone brand-new under his wing. Such praise was exceedingly hard to believe when the fledgling cop was costing Lestrade his livelihood; namely, almost destroying his professional interaction with Sherlock Holmes.

Due to the rookie's improvised gun practice while inside the walls of the precinct, Lestrade questioned if the youth had been secretly taking lesson from Holmes on how to destroy an interior via bullet holes. The damage control of the fallen shelves and their contents had made them late for a seaworthy stakeout, but they raced to the river nevertheless.

Lestrade saw the boat already too far away from the docks to attempt to board, and made the mistake of immediately stopping short in realizing this. His trainee had entirely too much momentum and was running behind him far too closely. As a result, Lestrade met the Thames River most unpleasantly.

Watson and Holmes gazed out at the water to hide their smug smiles when Lestrade dragged himself, dripping wet and grumbling, up and over the side of the boat.


	36. Baffling

She was young, far too young, hardly twenty-five. Her eyes shone brightly in the afternoon sunlight, but perhaps it was only from the haze of tears making them appear glassy. Ellie Davis was happily married yesterday, but today she was widowed.

The woman in question currently sat across from him, weeping openly and pleading her questions. Why did he cheat after all these years? What was his reason? Was there anything she missed that could have stopped him? Was it her fault he was now murdered? They were answers Holmes didn't have to questions he couldn't begin to face.

After she had left he collapsed in his armchair, thoroughly exhausted by examining her case and opening the floodgates of her tears that left him completely drained. He had no idea how he could possibly feel this way when those things were entirely his client's problems. He need not concern himself with her emotional devastation, rather just solving the murder before another occurred. But seeing her so distraught made him uncomfortable. She had come to him, Sherlock Holmes, seeking the answers she so desperately needed and he surely would know. He didn't. He already failed her and had just accepted her case not more than five minutes prior.

He learned a lesson he was sure Watson knew quite well: emotions were baffling.


	37. Breakdowns

_I apologize, readers, for my extended absence, but I am back to writing regularly now that my schedule will finally allow it for a time. With that, the start of another mini-arc, delving into Holmes' early career and professional past. Reviews appreciated. ~DZ~_

* * *

He unlatched the tin storage box and fingered its contents gingerly, trying to recapture each moment in his mind from his early career. He had just been starting out and was receiving notoriety and minor publicity for his accomplishments as a young detective. Newspaper headlines featuring his name for his beginning cases. Celebratory letters from grateful clients, most of whom he never saw again after their case had been solved, but who had been appreciative enough to send their thanks. An honorary medal from the Belgian Ambassador, celebrating his achievements for the good of their country.

For all of these accomplishments, however, Holmes couldn't help but cringe as he observed each one. Every memento held its own great success, but also with the bittersweet reminder of the price he had paid for such recognition. He had worked his hardest in those early years, unrelenting and tirelessly, for very little reward. His professional fees were barely enough to pay the rent, due to his clients' inability to pay time after time. He started the tradition of working for days on end, simply because it was easier to stay awake, albeit shivering, at the end of a rain-soaked night.

He recalled, though he would rather choose to forget, that in those early days of his career he had quite a few breakdowns.


	38. Bruise

_A/N: continuance of "Breakdowns"... an early case._

* * *

Watson had insisted to accompany Holmes on the first major case outside the city limits of London, mostly in hopes of protecting his new flatmate and friend from inevitable danger. Holmes had never agreed for him to come along, and as Watson lay wounded on the ground beneath him, he realized he should have insisted Watson stayed home.

"I will never bring you along again." Holmes' hurried tone sounded like more of a scolding, conveniently hiding his worry over his friend.

Watson frowned in response, "You need someone to look after you, Holmes, especially in times of danger."

"How can you be so reasonable when _you_ are the one lying on the ground?"

"I'm a medical man, Holmes, and I can assure you-" Watson tried to sit up but Holmes pushed him back to his prostrate position.

"Spare me, dear doctor. A moment of rest before you attempt standing, else I will be the one catching you."

"Holmes, it's nothing! You mustn't-"

"I'm the very cause of it. My cases will all be independent from now on." Holmes vowed.

Watson raised himself on one elbow and turned his head to show his left temple where he had taken the blow of the pavement. "I am stronger than you give me credit for," he told Holmes pointedly about such a tiny bruise.


	39. Bed II

_A/N: continuance from "Breakdowns." Holmes' emotional breakdown. Multi-parter, Watson's POV.  
_

_

* * *

_

Holmes was currently wrapping up an extended case in Kent as I awaited his return home, a bit apprehensive of his mood. I hadn't heard _anything_ out of him when last he was home, for it seemed all he had time to do was obsess over his cases, both solved and pending. I convinced myself my concern wasn't necessary. Holmes thrived off being so busy, otherwise he wouldn't be so absorbed in his work.

His obsession was bound to have its negative effects, I feared, sooner rather than later. He was getting his due respect from the public, with clients pouring in and Scotland Yard appropriately jealous of his success. But it wasn't healthy to be pushing himself so hard without any rest, so I resolved to confront him on the matter when he returned.

After an hour and no sign of Holmes, I resolved to investigate his absence myself. With my hand on the doorknob, I turned suddenly in hearing a muffled cry from Holmes' bedroom. The crack of light from the sitting room illuminated the troubled face of my friend. It wasn't Holmes' presence or obvious nightmares that worried me, nor the sweat that gleamed on my friend's high forehead. My own face clouded at the fact that it was barely 7pm, and Holmes was already asleep in bed.


	40. Bleak

_A/N: continuance of the last, part of the "Breakdowns" arc.  
_

* * *

My further opening of the door had been just the slight disruption to stir Holmes awake from his troubled sleep. "Before you hurl your unneeded concern at me, Watson," Holmes half-groaned in a monotonous tone, "I returned from the country early after having finished the case." My frown only deepened when I saw my friend burrow deeper into the blankets. "Good night, Watson."

"It is only seven o'clock."

"I was kept up for many nights on the chase."

"And the villain is now arrested?"

"Case closed. Good night."

I refused to leave the room nor be satisfied with Holmes' short answers and detached tone of voice. Something was surely wrong. It did not take the great deductions of Sherlock Holmes to see the man himself was amiss.

"Holmes, I suspect you must be falling ill. It is the only possible explanation for your present mood at the end of a successful case. I'll fetch my medical bag and-"

"I am quite well, merely exhausted from overuse." he half-heartedly waved me away. "Please, Watson." I had never heard Sherlock Holmes beg for anything, let alone for his own health!

"Holmes, I must be firm. I shall sit with you all night to tend to-"

Holmes sighed heavily, the only emotive noise from him during our exchange. "The future, Watson, is incredibly bleak."


	41. Back

_A/N: continuance of the last. Final part of the "Breakdowns" arc._

_

* * *

_

"Last week's client, the young woman." Holmes addressed me. "What do you recollect?"

I knitted my brows in trying to remember the girl. "Why, she had saved up her salary for months just to come see you."

"Indeed."

"It proved how much she valued your assistance!" I encouraged.

"It _proved_," he scoffed, "that she was in a great deal of trouble. I found her murdered, last night. I came to her aid far too late."

An uneasy silence came between us. I could only imagine how long he had carried the burden alone.

"Holmes, you are not responsible." I heard him bark a bitter laugh. "I know your methods and now I will question you. Was the murderer also dead when you arrived?"

"He shot himself afterwards."

"Despite all best efforts, some criminals are too far gone in their own injustices to ever be triumphed by reason. It's a flaw of the human character that chooses the criminal path," I softened my tone and smiled, hoping to reassure him, "and_ not_ a flaw on you, dear fellow."

After an extended silence Holmes threw off the blanket and sat up in bed, his grey eyes shining again with their usual mirth. _"_Watson!" he smiled at me and I was finally relieved. "You always know just what to say to bring me back."


	42. Bliss

_A/N: To all my faithful readers... yes, this is INTENDED to shock you. ~DZ~_

* * *

Like everything else in his life, it is a process. Stare at the twinkling bottle on the mantelpiece. Watch as it glitters golden in the firelight. Tie off the forearm with a spare rubber strap. Unlock the drawer and extract the needle. Feel the coolness between fingertips. For a moment enjoy the quiet solitude: only the needle. Caress it. Savor it.

Savagely grab the bottle and hold it down. Strangle the neck and do not let it go. Stab the needle in right through the cork and pull out the dosage. Grin as the sparkle makes it one step closer to home.

Blink hard, focus vision. _Quickly._ Sweat in anticipation. _Quickly. _Jab the needle into the vein, enough to break the skin, enough to bruise. It will show tomorrow, show just how badly he needs the release. Push the plunger all the way down. Feel the burn as the drug is injected. Intake a sharp breath as the plunger finishes its depression, Exhale slowly while withdrawing the needle. Feel a strange lightness as the sparkle courses through the bloodstream. Untie the strap and sink back into the cushion of the armchair. Close eyes. Lean head back. Smile lazily. Drop needle from limp grasp.

Holmes watches, horrified, as Watson drops the needle. His friend betrays him, and blatantly steals his rightful bliss.


	43. Beacon

_A/N: Just a one-chapter continuation of the last, to give a bit more explanation. Told from the POV of Holmes' needle, as a plea to Watson. _

_Credit for the prompt of "POV of an important object" goes to **Lemon Zinger**, and it is probable that more of these important object POV's may appear later in this 221B series._

* * *

The door slams shut as he walks out on you, but you're too wrapped in euphoria. I'm not proud, but you clearly are as your smile turns to a smirk. You should not be proud of what you've done to yourself, to him, to me… to all of us.

You were savage and brutal in your handling of me. All you needed were my sparkling insides. My body is now an empty shell, robbed of the lifeblood you've stolen. You, of all people, a doctor! One who knows better than the rest of the negative effects! Was it really a headache or are you just another hypocrite?

I am used to playing rough and only serving another's purpose. I am used to being wanted for how I can numb the surrounding world. He needs me because he is addicted. You are stronger than that. And if you could only have seen the look on his face before he left. Betrayed. Hurt. Disappointed. He never wanted this for you, even if your war wounds became unbearable.

Please pick me up and put me back in my case. Lock me away in the drawer. Make him swear me off for good. He may be addicted to me, but it is _you_ who he really needs. I was never meant to be anyone's beacon.


	44. Both

Holmes never saw it coming. By the time he realized they were even in danger Watson was being blown aside by the force of the impact from shards of the explosion. Time slowed as Holmes stood and stared as his friend became limp and helpless, thrown to the ground in a scratched and torn heap, wounds already bleeding as he fell. Holmes sprang into action once the blasts had stopped, convinced their echo would never stop ringing in his ears.

Against his better judgment, Holmes allowed Watson to be bandaged up at Charing Cross Hospital, insisting that his friend be allowed to return to Baker Street immediately after the last bandage was tied. Once safely bundled in the warmth of the sitting room, Holmes started the longest part of his vigil.

His wish to move Watson had been too hurried. Another day in the hospital would have stopped the infection that now raged through his friend's body. Holmes had lost his appetite when the fever first spiked, realizing Watson's dangerous health was _entirely_ his fault. Holmes swallowed the rising urge to vomit when Watson started screaming at his hallucinations, threatening them to keep a safe distance or he would shoot his army rifle straight between their eyes.

Fever and fire both burned mercilessly. Tonight, the good doctor was afflicted with both.


	45. Blunt

Lestrade walked determinedly down the street approaching the door. It was his first night on the beat as a new trainee, and despite his confident stride, he still glanced over at his inspector for leadership; he only received stoicism instead. Lestrade wondered if his elder ignored the fact that they were delivering devastating news… to children.

"Richards," Lestrade began hesitantly to the gruff inspector he followed, "They're only children. How do you even know-"

"He and his brother live here. Against the law. I've been overlooking them for years." Richards blew out a frustrated sigh and knocked impatiently.

A portly boy half their height opened the door, sleepily rubbing his eyes. "Inspector Richards?"

Lestrade knit his brows with worry when he saw a much smaller boy peeking out from behind the taller one. Two brothers, now without parents… which was exactly what Richards told them. It was Lestrade who knelt down to comfort the younger brother, who had giant tears streaming from large grey eyes.

"See me at the precinct tomorrow, Mycroft." Richards informed the elder brother as he pulled the door closed and shook his head. "Something you'll learn very quickly, Lestrade." Lestrade only stared at his mentor in shock and bewilderment. "In our profession, no matter how cold-hearted we are accused of being…. it is better to be blunt."


	46. Bites

_A/N: Basil returns. Multi-parter._

* * *

Watson entered the sitting room excitedly, holding a secret carefully in both hands. Holmes arched an eyebrow over his newspaper.

"I'm looking for a cage of some sort." Watson mumbled. "Do we have an empty box?" Holmes only stared as Watson didn't wait for an answer. He shifted his small bundle into one hand, being sure to keep a hole for an opening, before overturning an entire box of books onto the floor and dropping the handful within.

Holmes tossed his paper to the floor. Watson's unusual behavior was now much more interesting than the agony column. He had just thrown _books_ on the floor.

"A towel, perhaps. Something warm." Watson rushed around in his search as Holmes stood, ready to investigate. "Are there clean towels by the sink?"

"One, yes." Holmes answered as Watson rushed off to find it. Holmes was now left alone when the box suddenly emitted a scratching sound and several squeaks. Holmes pounced on it, grabbing the offender with one fist.

Watson dropped the towel upon his return, hearing Holmes hiss in pain. "Holmes, no!"

"We are _not_ keeping it, Watson." Holmes insisted as he held the rodent out at arm's length, dangling it dangerously by its tail. He glared at the animal, grimacing, the knuckle of his free hand already starting to bruise, "It bites."


	47. Break

_A/N: continuance of the last_

* * *

Basil was dropped from Holmes' grasp and landed hard on the wood floor, skittering in a panic to Dawson who waited behind the desk. He limped as he ran, his front paw throbbing terribly with each step, sweat trickling down his fur and gasping for breath once he reached his friend. He sank with a sigh against the wall, just as Dawson gasped.

"Basil! Are you alright?" Basil tried to hide his wince of pain but Dawson's medically trained eyes were too quick. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing, Doctor." Basil was quick to dismiss. "Just a fall. I'll be fine."

"Just a fall? From human height, Basil! He dropped you without even _thinking_ of what might happen!" Dawson exclaimed in irritation.

"He'll come around." Basil smiled. "I panicked and bit him on accident. He was only reacting to my hurting him first."

Dawson pulled out a bandage and hovered by Basil's injured arm, which Basil protectively covered with his free paw as he held it close to his chest. "Come now, Basil." Dawson urged. "I promise to be careful."

Basil tensed every muscle in his body and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself. Dawson gently inspected Basil's paw but shook his head while he wrapped the arm carefully. "It will hurt very badly for a while. You're lucky it's a clean break."


	48. Beaker

_A/N: continuance of the last - final chapter_

* * *

"Holmes, how could you just drop him?" Watson exclaimed.

Holmes only scoffed. "Watson, it was a mouse. A pest, meant to be destroyed."

"It was _Basil_, Holmes." Watson only shook his head and dropped to his hands and knees to begin searching. "You've probably hurt him quite badly!"

Holmes dropped his head, knitting his brows. Knowing it was Basil made him feel terribly guilty, and he hadn't recognized the mouse without his tiny Victorian outfit. He sat at his chemistry table, inspecting an experiment that was in-progress while he considered how best to find and apologize to Basil. He had to make sure the little mouse was alright after such a long drop to the floor.

"When I find him, Holmes," Watson urged in frustration, "he is staying in the sitting room until he recovers from whatever you did to him."

"I think I've found him, Watson." Holmes moved aside his Bunsen burner to find Dawson wrapping Basil's arm with a tiny white bandage.

Watson hurried over and looked over Holmes' shoulder, "Basil, are you alright?"

The mouse smiled and nodded, looking up at Holmes and examining the chemistry equipment which surrounded him on the table. Holmes smiled, eyes sparkling with mirth. "It would seem that I have a new chemistry assistant." Basil grinned before he climbed triumphantly atop a beaker.


	49. Boys

_A/N: NO SLASH... merely bromance. Movieverse... only RDJ would be so adorably clingy._

_ This took me 2 hours typing one finger at time... so much for my sick day making me better. Will update all stories soon. **~DZ~**_

* * *

While most other housekeepers might have been shocked, Mrs. Hudson hardly flinched at the sight before her. Sherlock Holmes' head resting on Dr. Watson's lap, with Gladstone guarding the detective's feet. All three were asleep.

Dr. Watson sat up at the end of the sofa, head resting on his palm. His free hand was resting on top of Holmes' shoulder, propped up by the back of the couch. When coupled with the sight of Mr. Holmes gripping a blanket up to his chin, shivering as he lay on his side, Mrs. Hudson realized the doctor had been patting the detective's head to soothe him. A closer look showed Holmes' hair still completely damp, though a flash of blue cotton stuck out beneath the blanket along with the detective's toes. Mrs. Hudson smiled in relief, thankful that the good doctor had thought to change those wet clothes.

She went to stoke the fire, glancing over one shoulder when she heard Mr. Holmes moan weakly in his sleep. Dr. Watson's hand resumed its gentle massage, entwining softly in dampened hair. Gladstone buried further in the blanket, one front leg resting atop Holmes' ankle protectively. Holmes smiled.

While Sherlock Holmes may have been a master detective, it was truly Mrs. Hudson who observed best. After all, the doctor and the detective _were _her boys.


	50. Bitterly

_A/N: Thank you to all my readers for the 100+ reviews of 221B. I thrive off all your feedback, so please send more my way! If you are a fan/subscriber, don't be hesitant to comment on your favorite chapters - I love hearing from you all. _

_Here is some angst, Holmes' POV. **Please review/PM me if you believe this deserves a continuation - I have one in the works, but am currently unsure.** ~DZ~_

* * *

It had been the third time Watson had canceled our dinner engagement in the last two weeks. Since Mrs. Watson was away, this time he had no excuse. I wasn't about to forgive his absence yet another time, not without some investigation. I dressed quickly, my observations turning themselves in circles in my mind.

Whenever Watson canceled, he always sent a telegram. Short, detached, and to the point, enough so that his telegrams were entirely too similar to mine. This time, however, I had gotten a word-of-mouth message from Mrs. Hudson, and with it a distinct absence of a telegram. There was no explanation this time, simply the reasoning that Watson couldn't come. Not that having an excuse would make me stop my investigation of his continued absences from our usual dinners together.

I tried to make up the excuses for him, but the more I reasoned the less plausible they all seemed. Most importantly, his lack of explanation or simple response seemed to speak of his lack of caring. That in itself was extremely unusual, for Watson's sentimental nature would not allow for aloofness.

With the evidence piled before me, I came to a shattering conclusion. If he did not send notice, then perhaps it was not just dinner. Perhaps he did not want to see _me_, I resolved bitterly.


	51. Breasts

_A/N: AU. Female!Holmes and Female!Watson, both cross dressing as men to become successful in Victorian society._

* * *

I must confess that while I am not as highly perceptive as Holmes, I had suspected this for quite some time.

His true identity wasn't revealed in the way he would purposely step on the balls of his feet during a stakeout so as to remain quiet, his unusually light step unable to be detected. Nor was it confirmed in his gentle caress when handling his violin, and the extreme care he often took in gliding his bow over the strings as if he were caring for an infant child. What really gave Holmes away was an unexpected yet incredibly feminine sneeze.

He usually hid all signs of illness from me, knowing that as his doctor I would haul him into bed the moment I knew he was feeling unwell. He pulled his chair up close to the fire one night, shuddering momentarily before letting out an explosive sneeze, which ended in a high-pitched squeak of an exhale. He blushed faintly, coughing to cover his embarrassment, but the secret was out when the sternutation caught him by surprise: Sherlock Holmes was most _definitely_ a woman.

"You had better take care of that cold, Holmes." I advised, while he nodded.

I hoped he would admit to it soon, for it was becoming quite painful for me to consistently bind my own breasts.


	52. Bake

_A/N: AU, modern-day. Holmes and Watson as camp counselors. We all put a bit of ourselves into our writing, don't we? Enjoy... most are my own true stories. ~DZ~_

* * *

Watson had been willing to work at a summer camp for the chance to be with children. He had always maintained special bonds with his younger patients, and as a camp counselor such connections would only be strengthened. The children would not fear him - there were no bitter medicines or stabbing needles like in his office. Watson smiled as he preheated the oven for another batch of cupcakes, currently being mixed by the girls in the nearby classroom. The most stressful part of his day as the Cooking counselor was washing dishes - the summer would be _very_ peaceful.

"Watson!" Holmes shouted desperately as he burst into the room, the lab coat he wore spattered in multicolored goo oozing down to his knees. Watson came rushing when he heard the girls shriek in disgust, re-tying his apron around his waist.

"Girls, it's alright. This is my friend, Mr. Holmes." Watson looked up and was instantly horrified. "Holmes, what on earth _happened_ to you?"

"Goo fight. I lost. Watson, I'm desperate! I can't take them anymore!" Holmes wailed.

"We're barely through the first _week_, Holmes," Watson chuckled. "We still have the whole summer to go. You'll be fine once you get used to it."

Holmes scoffed indignantly while Watson smiled. "Coming from you, Watson? All _you_ do all day is bake!"


	53. Balloon

_A/N: continuation of camp arc... since there are 8 weeks in a camp season, there will be 8 total installments in this arc._

* * *

The experiment worked perfectly in his head: the children who came to Wonder Works for a special elective period would build balloon-powered cars and race them at the end of the week. He would give prizes to the winners, and each child would take their car home.

Factor the children into his plans, however, and nothing worked perfectly.

He had already sustained multiple burns from a hot glue gun in attaching button wheels to each car, some so serious his fingertips had gone numb. He had paint smears all over his exposed skin from the campers' haphazard decorating, making him long for a hot shower with _lots_ of scrubbing. He had begged the children _not_ to blow up their balloons to test their cars, since they would test all cars on race day. None of the children listened, and instead complained of how their balloon wouldn't blow up. Holmes sighed, showing them repeatedly how to hold their balloons so no air would escape, but to no avail.

With a disgusted grimace, trying to ignore the unsanitary act, Holmes blew them all up himself. He could taste the wetness of saliva on each one, vowing the children's collective demise if he caught anything.

Watson kept tissues and cold medicine at camp the next day while Holmes sniffled and cursed every last balloon.


	54. Boring

_A/N: continuation of camp arc_

* * *

On the hottest day of the summer, Holmes had been severely insulted by a boys' group. They were absolute terrors who refused to listen to directions. They made a mess of Holmes' tables, soaking all supplies and all of _Holmes_ in brightly colored water.

"Gentlemen," Holmes tried one last time to take control, feeling his temper about to boil. "Making a water tornado is quite simple, as you can see." He demonstrated by swirling the bottle of water just as he was splashed purposely by one of the campers. With a frustrated sigh, he slicked back his dripping hair and ignored the turquoise water soaking his shirt front.

"That's _it_? That's _all_ we're doing?" one boy complained as he crossed his arms indignantly.

Holmes gave a deadpanned glare, but smirked in triumph. "Allow me to explain how it works."

He went on, _at length_, to explain the physics behind his experiment, all in a very dry tone with _lots_ of technical detail. He watched the boys' eyes glaze over, their counselors looking as though he had just handed them all a death sentence. Holmes was very careful to take his time with his explanations, in order to completely eliminate any time left to finish the project.

After that day, no other camper ever complained that Holmes and his experiments were boring.


	55. Break II

_A/N: continuation of camp arc_

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* * *

_

For once, Holmes had an easy period at camp. The children were so focused on completing the experiment that they remained largely silent in their work, except for when they checked in with him. Once he finished answering an overwhelming chorus of, "Mr. Holmes, is this right," he could finally sit down with the group and enjoy leading the experiment in a relaxed position.

The group followed the steps accordingly and their counselors helped instead of watching _him_ rush around to complete all the projects himself. He was finally beginning to enjoy his work at the camp, instead of being overworked and overstressed.

He had a brief moment to observe the camp at work, overwhelmed with its sounds. Sharp lifeguard whistles echoed from the pool atop the hill. Shrieks and laughs of delighted children as they were chased by their counselors. Cicadas provided a background buzzing as they hummed in trees overhead, while a brook babbled secretly down a forest trail. Holmes opened his eyes only to lazily close them again, enjoying a refreshing breeze as it cooled his face and ruffled his hair. _This_ was the camp experience Watson admired so much. _This_ was what Holmes was meant to enjoy.

He was fully enjoying his moment of peaceful observation, which came to an abrupt end once he heard something break.


	56. Button

_A/N: continuation of camp arc_

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* * *

_

Watson knew that Holmes despised camp, and the two added stresses of managing children and executing experiments were wearing his friend down. Watson often felt a little guilty at seeing his friend so miserable, but remained firm in his decision; camp life was _good_ for Holmes. As much as Holmes hated camp, it never showed when he was _with_ the children. Holmes was a brilliant actor, becoming encouraging and kind whenever a child needed help, even if the camper annoyed him to no end.

"Knowing we get to launch them today makes building them all week worth it." An older girl chimed happily to Holmes as he led a group of children all carrying rockets. Holmes wore a clean lab coat and carried a launchpad while they all trudged up the hill. Maddie had _not_ stopped talking since the first day they started building the models.

"Yes," Holmes sighed wearily, "but it's also very important to listen to me, Maddie. I know how to safely launch them all. Do you understand?" He instructed seriously as the girl nodded. "Wait until you see how high they go!" He encouraged, seeing a grin spread on her face.

Whether Holmes was just a professional or his feelings about camp were truly changing, all of Holmes' complaints faded away once he pushed the launch button.


	57. Blue II

_A/N: continuation of camp arc_

_

* * *

_

Due to their popularity and success as specialist counselors, Holmes and Watson were elected Color War team captains, pitted against each other along with their respective _hundreds_ of campers. They were placed on captain teams, and knowing they were one another's enemy, they decided initiating a prank war was the best way to excite their campers.

The Color War of yellow versus blue raged on for days, and Holmes' team was winning. Watson was always the prime target for pranking, and so far he had been splattered with yellow paint, wrapped like a mummy in yellow streamers, and served a lemony yellow whipped cream pie - right in the face. All the while, Holmes dashed around camp dressed like a Spartan warrior, cheering on his campers at the top of his lungs. Watson grinned, knowing this was the most spirited Holmes had been all summer.

That wouldn't excuse him, however, from Watson's ultimate payback.

Watson was careful to be extremely quiet that night as he made a few alterations to their shared bathroom, emptying a packet of gelatin into the shower head. He barely even flinched the next morning when the bathroom door slammed open and Holmes glared at him in nothing but a towel.

Watson looked up, feigning surprise. "How very sportsmanlike, Holmes. Every _inch_ of you is bright blue!"


	58. Biscuit

_A/N: continuation of camp arc_

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* * *

_

"Holmes, the day has hardly even started…" Watson began with a sign, shaking his head. It was already the third time that morning his friend scrubbed furiously at food coloring stains on his palms. "You've only had two classes so far."

"This is precisely the problem, Watson. At this rate I'll be peeling off _layers_ of stained skin!" Holmes inspected his hands, sighing and re-scrubbing.

"Surely things can't be that bad, Holmes," Watson tried to encourage. "Wonder Works is all the _fun_ of science, isn't it?"

"Hardly, Watson." Holmes huffed. "New stains on my skin and clothes every day, greedy kids who grab everything and ruin the experiment-"

"Holmes," Watson began as a small girl with glasses had wandered upstairs and was now tugging on his apron strings.

"Half of my plans shot down, and absolutely _no_ real equipment to work with-" Holmes was pacing in his frustration.

"Holmes," Watson urged, the girl's tugging growing insistent.

"And all for what? For the children who hardly even _appreciate_ what I-"

"Holmes!" Watson cried, snapping his friend out of his ranting when the girl hugged Holmes by the hips.

"Thank you for Wonder Works today, Mr. Holmes. I had lots of fun." She hugged Holmes one more time. Watson smiled as Holmes stared at the girl, Watson handing her a freshly baked biscuit.


	59. Begged

_A/N: final chapter of camp arc_

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* * *

_

"Where did you come up with such a fun idea, Mr. Holmes? I _love_ bubbles!" A young girl exclaimed in delight.

"The Wonder Works counselors before me have all done it, so I thought it would be fun for you, too." Holmes explained sincerely. As the summer wore on, Holmes found his skepticism and cynicism of camp life transform into enjoyment. Most of the campers closely resembled his Irregulars in terms of their loyalty, and while he would never admit it, Holmes found it endearing.

"It's _so_ much fun! Will we do it again next year?" She asked hopefully.

"Erm…" Holmes visibly winced at the question. "Well, I'm not sure if I'll be able to come back next summer."

"You're not coming back!" She whined in disappointment. "But you _have_ to!"

Another girl ran over to join them, "We have so much _fun_ at Wonder Works, Mr. Holmes!"

"Please come back, Mr. Holmes!" a third girl joined the chorus.

"Yeah, please?"

"Girls, I just don't know-" Holmes tried to explain, voice tinged with uneasiness.

"Aw! Come on, please?"

"Pleeeeeaaaaase, Mr. Holmes?"

Before he could stop them, all three campers gave him the extended whine of "please," all in unison.

"I promise to think about it," Holmes resolved. He probably _would_ come back the following year, After all, the girls practically begged.


	60. Brandy

_A/N: regular writings resume, but at a more infrequent pace over the coming weeks. As you may have noticed, my recent absence means I am busy with a thrilling case of my very own... publishing my Holmes paper. ~DZ~_

* * *

Watson ascended the seventeen stairs of 221B Baker Street more slowly than usual, the torrential downpour outside making his wounds hurt worse than normal. A throbbing ache radiated throughout his body from the weariness of the day, but it was nothing a cup of tea and some conversation with Holmes couldn't fix right up.

"Thank goodness for Mrs. Hudson's tea." Watson commented with a smile in seeing the familiar tray on the table. "On a night like this, it's just the thing." Watson checked for a reaction from his friend, only to see Holmes staring blankly at the fire. No notice of his attempt at conversation or even his arrival… only blankness. Watson observed closely yet furtively, and didn't see any common signs of his friend's drug habit.

"So I assume you have no new cases then?" Watson asked as he poured the tea into both of their cups. Holmes still hadn't said a word, or even looked at Watson to acknowledge his presence. This was serious, and very abnormal compared with Holmes' usual states of depression or drug euphoria. "Holmes, how are we supposed to get on if you won't even speak to me?"

Watson still received no answers for his trouble. Instead he watched perplexedly as Holmes picked up and steadily drank from a large tumbler full of brandy.


	61. Band

_A/N: continuation of the last_

* * *

They sat there in silence for a long while, Watson trying to distract himself from the uncomfortable situation. Holmes kept staring and kept drinking, only ever moving from his armchair to the sideboard to refill his glass several times. Watson made casual commentary on his notes, asking Holmes' opinion of what should be written up for the next Strand publication, but never received an answer.

Watson was beginning to worry about the seemingly catatonic state of his best friend. Just as he was about to launch into a full physical examination, Holmes put down his glass and shifted in his chair.

It was the only time Watson had ever seen a glimmer of emotion in his friend's otherwise cold mask of logic. Strangely enough, the emotion he witnessed from Sherlock Holmes was unrestrained anger. It was only a momentary glance, as Holmes calmly rose from his chair and pulled out something small from the pocket of his waistcoat. His face contorted briefly into a grimace as he pitched it firmly into the fire. Watson saw a glint of gold as it flew from his friend's palm into the hearth, but once it melted and caught its own flame in the fireplace Watson only stared in shock. Holmes, now sitting again and resuming his brandy, had just vengefully burned a wedding band.


	62. Black

_A/N: continuation of the last, final chapter in this mini-arc._

* * *

"Holmes," Watson began cautiously. "What was that?"

"A wedding ring."

"Well, yes, I can see it burning from here. But why?"

"It is no longer needed as a crucial item." Holmes answered cryptically.

"But whose wedding ring was it? And what right did _you_ have to burn it, especially in such a manner as you did?"

Holmes sighed deeply and gulped down the last of his brandy, wincing. Watson wanted answers he never wanted to admit to anyone. But as the liquor turned his mind a bit foggy, he would allow for one private admission.

"Do you recall a female client from a few weeks ago? Miss Emily Lawrence?"

"Why, of course!" Watson smiled. "She was quite captivating, and very enthralled with you, if I remember."

"Well, Watson, I admit I have kept it a secret from you, but Miss Lawrence and I were engaged to be married not so long ago. The ring I just burned was intended to be mine, and I would have worn it…" Holmes sighed bitterly. "Had she not secretly married another man."

Holmes curled up in his chair, lighting his pipe and resuming his sightless stare, while Watson could say nothing to comfort him for the rest of the evening. It was the very first of those terrible moods they would both forever deem "black."


	63. Battle

_A/N: I had **wanted** to write several fluffy/cute/happy one-shot chapters before this mini-arc, but it seems only misery and angst inspire me. Hopefully that will change._

_This arc, composed of five total chapters (Battle, Blunt II, Bird, Bickering, Breakfast) was originally inspired by _**Jaelijn**_, who requested an argument between Holmes and Watson that started an arc in her series Four Strings and a Bow. THAT argument starts in chapter 72. _**GO READ THIS ARC FIRST.**

_I owe everything in this mini-arc to this fantastic writer. Please go comment, show some love._

_For now, an argument, some angst, and...? **~DZ~**_

* * *

"Watson," Holmes interrupted me one evening as I sat composing our most recent adventure together for Strand magazine. "You write in such a florid way of our adventures together."

I stiffened, bristling at his veiled criticism. "It keeps my readers interested. I must have the readers to keep getting paid, so you and I can afford rent every month," I reminded him.

"Deduction is, or ought to be, an exact science." I rolled my eyes at his advice. "There is no need to embellish uselessly. Especially in your descriptions of me."

I grew hot with indignation. "I have not once-"

"'You will excuse me while I satisfy myself as to this floor.' He threw himself down upon his face, with his lens in his hand..." He read aloud from the copy and I lashed out defensively, attacking him ruthlessly for the accusation.

"As the author of the story, you are my creation. I have power over how to describe you, and thus, power over you! Hard to believe, I know, of the great Sherlock Holmes!"

"I am an independent entity, of you, the law or anyone else." He remarked matter-of-factly. "I would appreciate it if you tailored your writing to truth in the future."

Even during all my years as a soldier, I had never before felt more hurled into battle.


	64. Blunt II

"Criticisms are necessary, Watson, if you wish to become a _successful_ author of our adventures." I inwardly fumed at his casual dismissal of my hobby.

"What you consider _failed stories_, Holmes-"

"Glad to see you're finally admitting they _have_ failed up until now." I glared at him for the remark, feeling my temper about to burst. "There's no need to take it personally, old boy."

"If I were to tell the facts _as they were_, Holmes, you would be locked away in an institution without a moment's hesitation!"

"At least then you wouldn't be lying, Watson."

"My _lying_ has kept you out of trouble! I save you from having the public see you as you truly are - a deranged lunatic gone mad over a dead-end case! An inebriate who sits in his room waiting for his next euphoria, drug-induced or otherwise! You're a miserable wretch, Holmes! I have _complete_ power over you in those pages, so just accept it. Time and time again I save your reputation, yet I have no idea why I protect you so! Let the world see you then, naked and honest, _without_ my interpretation to help them admire you!"

I had always scolded Holmes for being brutally honest, but when he immediately left the room after my insults I wished _I_ had been less blunt.


	65. Bird

Holmes walked quickly along the dark and rainy streets of London, feeling as though he were trying to outrun his greatest enemies. He tried to make his deductions about his argument with Watson, but he could only focus on the insults his friend had so ruthlessly hurled at him.

It was true that his life was dangerous as a result of his career, and he could often be reckless in his pursuit of a criminal. His career allowed him to indulge in thrill-seeking behavior; he almost always felt high from an adrenaline rush. He adored the waterfall stream of thought in his deductive process, the inspiring breakthrough, and the thrill of the chase in hunting down his enemies. Enjoying himself and loving his work did _not_ make him an inebriated lunatic.

But the more Holmes thought about it, the more hurt he felt, and the more he suspected that Watson might have actually been right. Watson's true feelings meant Holmes could not trust him: writing their adventures, assisting on cases, or continuing their friendship.

Holmes looked up suddenly at the sound of a gruff voice and the shuffling of feet directly behind him. He realized fatefully that he was trapped in the alleyway with the gang closing off his only exit. "Look 'ere boys! We got ourselves a lost little bird!"


	66. Bickering

I acted very much like Holmes once he left Baker Street and I found myself alone after our heated argument. I paced in front of the fire, tried to write yet was unable to, and even lit a pipe as I sat down to think. Certainly I regretted what I said, as I had spat insults without thinking. I reacted completely in my anger in order to defend my writing, and in doing so I had hurt my dearest friend. I, who knew better than anyone, that Sherlock Holmes was human, and not a cold-hearted analyst. Yet I was the one who pointed out his flaws so heartlessly.

I came running downstairs when Mrs. Hudson screamed. Holmes had dragged himself back to Baker Street after being the victim of a mugging, the bruises of which I could clearly see on his exposed arms and shoulder where his shirt had been ripped away. He was hardly conscious and barely able to hold himself upright as he bled heavily onto our front steps. After administering a needle of morphine, Mrs. Hudson helped me carry him upstairs.

I felt sick to my stomach, racked with overwhelming guilt whenever I looked over at my friend, lying insensible on the sitting room couch. Holmes was bruised and bloody, all because of our prior and pointless bickering


	67. Breakfast

_A/N:__ Final chapter of the mini-arc. Many thanks again to _**Jaelijn**_ who provided me with this little idea._

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* * *

_

Holmes' injuries were severe, but they would heal within a few days. I spent the night checking on him sleeping under the haze of medicine I administered, and wanting to strangle the ruffians who would dare hurt him so.

"Watson," Holmes gasped once he awoke in the morning, pain etched in his features as he tried to sit up. "About last night,"

"Holmes-"

"If that is how you truly feel, then we are no longer being honest with one another." Holmes stated softly. "And I cannot trust you if you intend to be dishonest."

"I spoke out of anger-" I began to defend myself, but Holmes interrupted quickly.

"Which induces the most vivid honesty of all. You said what you truly felt about me."

"Holmes," I insisted sternly, "that is not true. I felt insulted that you would be so remarkably critical of my writing. It is something I take great pride in." I explained, my voice even and calm. "I would never intentionally insult you about something you cared for… not even a three in the morning violin concert."

Holmes smiled at that, chuckling lightly despite the pain. I returned his grin and poured the tea into our cups. Neither I nor Holmes needed to say anything more as we shared an unspoken sense of forgiveness along with our breakfast.


	68. Bereavement

_A/N: Normal 221B's resume as of now._

* * *

As Holmes stood alongside Watson and Lestrade in the middle of a sitting room, he was overcome by all the family members gathered there. Their client, the wife of a well-to-do family, sat sobbing with her husband and daughters. Her sisters and their families were sitting nearby, a collective echo of sniffles and gasps as the family cried in their grief. Their mother, after having gone missing for several days, had been found murdered. What Holmes thought was closure to a family so obviously distraught, had really just broken them all to pieces.

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes," apologized his client tearfully. "Surely you must understand that this news… well, we do appreciate it, but-" She broke off into a fresh stream of tears, weeping uncontrollably as her shoulders shook.

"Come now, my dear," her husband took her hand and patted it reassuringly. "At least now we have an answer as to where she was."

"Oh! Oh Victor!" She sobbed anew, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.

Holmes realized it was terrible news he had delivered, one that had destroyed a family held together by the presence of their mother. No matter how many cases he solved or what answers he provided his clients, he could never erase a family's crushing sense of bereavement.


	69. Balanced

_A/N: SLASH! Not explicit, moreso romantic, but... I'm human. OTP FTW! Now that the fangirling is finished... Holmes in love (I had to do it sometime).  
_

* * *

Becoming a romantic fool was the worst and best part about being in love, not that he would dare admit that discovery to anyone. The very sentimentality he mocked Watson for Holmes now suffered from himself. And if the doctor were to tell him it was incurable, and he'd be doomed a terminal romantic for the rest of his days, Holmes would lap it up deliciously as a secret life in love.

Everything he suddenly felt was so different from his cold mask of logic. His chest swelled with pride and he couldn't help but grin stupidly every now and again. He'd play his violin with energy and fervor, sweeping through operatic arias instead of haunting improvisations. Even his work life improved, as his reactions were quicker and his step lighter when chasing down a criminal, enabling a quick capture.

The joy he felt he had to keep hidden, because it was so contradictory to his overall personality and attitudes on love. Holmes always felt most at ease when he and Watson sat before the fire sharing comfortable silence along with their brandy. Now he found himself restless without his Boswell. Holmes felt a longing for Watson's company and an incompleteness without him.

The very feeling between two men was a crime, and so Holmes kept his emotions _very_ precariously balanced.

* * *

_A/N: **CRUCIAL QUESTION for ALL reviews of this chapter:** 221B arc to expand this? Separate story entirely? Or leave as is, and move on to a different and unrelated chapter of 221B? Post or PM, please and thank you._


	70. Babysitting

_A/N: Thanks to all for the comments and input regarding the last chapter. It will be evolved into its own story, hopefully soon. On another note, just saw BBC's Sherlock tonight for the first time, and am happily hooked. This chapter, however, has nothing to do with that.  
_

* * *

As much as Holmes enjoyed his solitude, that night he desperately wished that Watson had not gone away to the country. Holmes was alone, and now solely responsible for the crying child standing on his doorstep. He would have gladly sent the boy to Mrs. Hudson, had she not already been asleep.

"I'm sorry, Mr. 'Olmes," he sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve as the tears fell faster. "I just didn't know where else to go, and-" he let out a frightened sob and kept crying.

Holmes' eyes darted momentarily to the floor as he sighed inwardly and held out his handkerchief, coughing dryly to prompt the boy to take it. "Come upstairs," he offered after the sniffling had quieted. "Whoever has lost you will surely come looking, and I have some tea and a warm fire." They boy's eyes lit up at the promise of comfort, much to Holmes' surprise since they were such simple offerings.

"I'm scared, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy confessed. "What if they never find me?"

"Then _I_ will find _them_." Holmes promised.

The boy curled up under a blanket, clutching Holmes' monogrammed handkerchief like a stuffed bear. Holmes reached over to stroke the boy's hair until they both fell asleep. It was precisely the scene Watson walked into, shaking his head: Holmes, asleep, babysitting.


	71. Boarder

The day Mr. Holmes moved in, Mrs. Hudson was unsuspecting. The day _after_ Mr. Holmes moved in, Mrs. Hudson was forever wary.

Other lodgers would normally cause problems a month or so into their rents, but Mr. Holmes wasted no time in giving her headache after headache. From his strange visitors at all hours, regardless of when his landlady must _surely_ be asleep so late at night, to his ruining the expensive upholstery with chemistry experiments gone wrong, Mr. Holmes was ignorant of Mrs. Hudson's house rules at 221 Baker Street. He even had the audacity to treat her like his mother, asking for prepared meals and laundry service!

He also never missed a rent payment, even through all the times they both knew he couldn't afford it. He gave her flowers on her birthday and every Christmas. And the one time an accidental explosion had left her injured and bedridden for weeks, Mr. Holmes was the only tenant willing to help her with everyday tasks, instead of merely paying a visit.

Once the doctor moved in there was no less excitement. Dr. Watson took care of more of Holmes' "minor accidents" and Mrs. Hudson finally had time to bring them tea every now and again. In all her years as a landlady, Mr. Holmes was undoubtedly Mrs. Hudson's favorite boarder.


	72. Bulldog

Upon first arriving in London after the Afghan War, Dr. John Watson found himself completely alone. The _loneliness_ of that state, however, made him miserable. He thought that, as an ex-soldier, a return to normal life would be welcome relief from his grief-ridden war experience. It didn't, and so he tried other distractions.

It had become his custom to walk through Covent Garden Market on his way home from his newly-opened medical practice, and one evening there was a full crowd gathered around one particular shopkeeper. Hearing the coos of women peering into a box of tiny yelps, Watson's curiosity got the better of him and he wandered over. Seven puppies clamored for his attention inside a cardboard box, yapping and jumping up on their hind legs. He chose the loudest one, with bright blue eyes and tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. When he picked it up by the scruff of its neck to get a closer look, the pup licked his face happily. Watson laughed, for the first time in weeks.

As he finished moving in at 221B Baker Street, he was thrilled to see the landlady so excited about the puppy running circles around her feet. Eventually, and with much convincing of the dog's complete innocence, even his roommate patted the head of the tiny bulldog.


	73. Ballad

Sentiment had always been Watson's area of expertise. He often considered Holmes' critiques of his talent to be badges of honor: for every disparaging word from Holmes, Watson felt much more proud of his writing. Watson also noticed that Holmes never once instructed the case notes to be stopped entirely. For all his criticism, Holmes _enjoyed_ Watson's writings. When money was hard to come by, particularly during Holmes' bouts of lethargy, Watson used his talents to pay Mrs. Hudson their monthly rent. But, with no new cases to publish, Watson needed some other inspiration.

"Holmes," Watson began, interrupting the detective's in-depth study of the ceiling. This would be easy, as Holmes was already bored out of his mind. "How about the opera tonight?"

"You'll be needing a new review, hm? Verdi has a new opera I'm sure your readers will enjoy." Holmes only smiled at Watson's look of amazement mixed with shock. "Every night this week after supper, you have gone out in full evening wear and returned late. Not once have you mentioned a meeting with Mary. Where else but the opera, and with your notebook in hand, what else but writing a review of the performance?"

Holmes helped with future reviews as they attended together, revealing his own sentimentality in directing Watson's attention to each beautiful aria and ballad.


	74. Beautiful

We have always been there for each other: he inspires me to sing and I help him to think. But our relationship is much more special than it would seem at first glance. We share a close and private intimacy, one that I cherish every day we are together.

The rest of the world sees him as coldly logical, calculatingly analytical, and incapable of the softer sides of the human condition. He is not only capable, but _masterful_ at all of it. Sherlock Holmes caresses me with the gentlest of touches, and brings out my inner spark to shine through all my features. His heart surely must be as great as his mind for him to care for me the way he does.

He is passionate during our moments of intimacy, ensuring my delight along with his own. I shiver whenever his fingers trail down my neck. I tingle with glee when our bodies touch, knowing it might all be over in an instant. Holmes is devoted as much as he is fickle, and I have been left naked on the floor more than once as he pursued some new intellectual problem.

He thinks I am lovely, and that my voice is captivating enough to move our listeners to tears. But it is I who find _him_ truly beautiful.

* * *

_A/N:__This 221B is told from the POV of Holmes' violin. Surprised, aren't you?_


	75. Bedclothes

_A/N: Exploring the first time Holmes was injured in his work. Very early on in the Holmes/Watson dynamic, just after SIGN. Will be a small multi-parter._

* * *

It was the first time Holmes had ever gotten hurt during a case. While the bullet had not landed into his flesh, it had grazed him well enough. Since no cabbie would dare have him bleed all over the interior on such meager paychecks, he was forced to walk home. He chose Baker Street instead of Charing Cross because he hated any doctor who wasn't Watson. What a fine weekend for the doctor to be away!

He had already ripped most of his shirt to wrap tightly around his leg, which left him shivering against the night air underneath his coat, but also _not_ bleeding on Mrs. Hudson's carpet as he dragged himself up the stairs. The overall exertion had left him so drained that he collapsed into bed.

He didn't awaken until well after teatime the following day, but immediately knew something was wrong. He felt ill, worse than he ever had, and rushed to the toilet to be sick. Each limping step on his bad leg sent a shooting pain throughout his body and left him very near to completely blacking out. By the time he crawled back into bed he felt overheated but had no energy to push off the blanket.

Mrs. Hudson hurried for help once she saw him soaked in sweat, tangled in the bedclothes.


	76. Bedridden

_A/N: Two chapters in one day? I am on fire!_

_Continuation of the last..._

* * *

"Telegram, John," Mary informed as she handed him an envelope.

"Damned Anstruther!" Watson mumbled as he held a thermometer between his teeth. "I told him _not_ to bother us on my days off!"

"Particularly when you've taken ill during our holiday. I'll thank you _not_ to talk, John, while we're trying to see about your fever." Mary examined the telegram, frowning, "It's from Baker Street. Mr. Holmes has a case?"

Watson nodded and took it from her, tearing open the envelope and rolling his eyes. Probably another IF INCONVENIENT COME ALL THE SAME. Holmes _knew_ that Watson hated those messages. Watson was shock to see it was actually from Mrs. Hudson.

"Holmes is hurt. And ill as a result." Watson reported.

"Why is he not at hospital?" Mary asked.

"He'd just cause more trouble trying to convince the doctors he was perfectly fine." Watson shrugged the blanket off his shoulders, preparing to get out of bed.

Mary was quick to stop him, "John, you are _not_ going to London."

He stood anyway. "Mary, they need my help. Holmes is-" He swayed a bit, eyes fluttering. When he fell back into bed in a faint, Mary nestled him in, sighing and shaking her head.

"He's as stubborn as you are." Mary replied with another telegram: WATSON SICK WITH FEVER AND FLU. BEDRIDDEN.


	77. Bitterness

_A/N: continuation of the last. Final chapter of this mini-arc._

* * *

Both Mary and Mrs. Hudson, after receiving news that no help was to arrive from the other party, became impromptu nurses to the sick men. They were also part scolding mothers as well, once they realized just how stubborn the two men were acting.

"You cannot always be there to pick up his pieces, John." Mary huffed, frustrated that Watson refused to be selfish just this once. "He is an adult; _surely_ he can take care of himself!"

"Leaving this wrapped up so tightly, Mr. Holmes, and all night long?" Mrs. Hudson chided with a disapproving click of her tongue while unwrapping his leg from the makeshift bandage. "You're lucky to still have the blood _going _to your foot at all."

Both men looked pitiably up at their caretakers, eyes unnaturally bright with fever. Both women softened when they heard their patients' voices filled with sadness.

"He needs me, Mary. I cannot abandon him."

"He's more than my doctor, Mrs. Hudson. He's my friend and I trust him."

Their messages, though miles apart, remained exactly the same: they cared for the other's wellness far more than their own. Enough so that each was useless without the other. Both nurses sighed but smiled all the same, laughing when Holmes and Watson were given their medicine, spluttering like overgrown children at the bitterness.


	78. Badge

The villainess laughed coldly as she aimed the pistol straight-on. "Come now, _dear sir_, surely you must understand the value of justice in this situation."

"Criminals live by a distinct _lack_ of justice," he retorted matter-of-factly.

She backhanded him with the gun. His cheek stung, and he tasted blood at the corner of his mouth. "You sent my husband to die by hanging five years ago," she bristled with rage. "You owe me my _life_ back!"

"Trifles," he scoffed, "particularly when your husband was responsible for several deaths himself." He was beaten again with the pistol, harder this time, enough to spit out blood.

"Don't play me, Mr. Holmes…" she warned.

"I put _him_ to death instead of you, my dear lady. I _saved_ your life that day in front of the Head Inspector. It may have been him holding the gun, but _you_ planned their deaths." Holmes immediately had the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple. "If you haven't shot me by now, you most _certainly_ will not dare attempt it."

She had no time to, as Constable Lestrade and his fellow officers burst in with handcuffs, effectively saving Holmes and arresting her. It was the day they decided to combine the police and private detective forces into one collaborative effort, and how Lestrade earned his Inspector badge.


	79. Bramble

As children, the Holmes brothers were frequently brought to the country on holiday. It was a special bliss so different than their home life, full of warm sunshine and fresh air. Sherlock and Mycroft would climb trees, jump off boulders and race over grass hills. Mother was always there to dry their tears, patching up every painful scraped knee with a bandage and a kiss. For a few fleeting summers, the boys were always dirty but undeniably happy.

It was their last summer while their parents were still alive. In retrospect, Father's stern instruction for his boys to become men should have been their clue. His warning was an abrupt end to their joy, but for the boys of ten and six years old, one last romp was absolutely necessary. They had forever to become men, and were in no hurry to do it right then.

They hurried to the lake, Sherlock's favorite spot. He loved dipping his feet in the water and having his big brother splash him with cannonball dives. In his eagerness, Sherlock tripped and tumbled down the hill, crying out in agony once he stopped. He learned to hate the country from that day forward, all the memories of his happy childhood before his parents' death tangling up and wounding him like that patch of thorny bramble.

* * *

_A/N:__ 1. For my take on the parents' death (set a few months **after** this chapter) see chapter 45_

_ 2. Bramble = prickly bush, obviously painful to be in contact with_


	80. Backbone

_A/N: The return of the rookie, as requested._

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* * *

_

Lestrade sighed and looked at his watch for the third time that hour. They had the rest of the night ahead of them, and his rookie had not yet learned the most essential part of a stakeout: remaining silent. And Lestrade was growing increasingly annoyed at the chatter.

"Look, Morris, the _purpose _of a stakeout is for our enemies not to realize we're here. Keep quiet." Lestrade urged.

"Apologies, Inspector. The thrill of it all has me excited." The rookie responded, and Lestrade nodded in understanding. There was a part of Lestrade that had grown more tolerant of his fledgling officer, mostly because he saw a younger version of himself. He couldn't outright crush the young one's eagerness, even if he _was_ the new kid on the beat.

Action came sooner than they had expected as the shots rang out and Lestrade sprang into action. He abandoned their hiding spot and started the chase, pistol in hand. Once he returned fire, he looked over his shoulder for backup from his partner.

Lestrade was completely alone on the street, unaware of where the rookie had gone. He doubled back, which was dangerous enough during the exchange of gunfire, to find Morris shaking like a leaf as he tried to load his gun.

"Morris!" Lestrade boomed, making his trainee jump. "Have some backbone!"


	81. Benevolent

**A/N:** _AKA... 5 times Watson prayed and 1 time he didn't._

* * *

Watson trusted in religion to guide him through troubled times, especially prayer as a way to talk to God.

He prayed that he would live while on the battlefield in Afghanistan, as he was sure he was bleeding to death from the bullet wounds that would cripple him for life.

He was so nervous in asking Mary to marry him that he had to remind himself to keep breathing while he popped the question. He sent up a quick prayer that she would say yes.

When he first moved in with Sherlock Holmes, and the detective starting shooting at the walls out of sheer boredom, he sighed in exasperation and prayed their landlady was patient enough not to throw them out.

He prayed constantly in Mary's final days of life, begging God to allow her to live just a short while longer so they would be together for one last Christmas.

After grieving the death of Sherlock Holmes, once his tears had stopped from the combined deaths of his wife and best friend so close in succession, he was finally able to pray for the welfare of his friend's soul in Heaven.

In the year following the deaths of both his dearest love Mary and his truest friend Sherlock Holmes, Watson stopped praying. He abandoned all hope that God was benevolent.


	82. Being

_A/N: 5 times Holmes did not pray... and 1 time he did._

* * *

Holmes believed in logic, and so the existence of God and religion meant nothing to him. He never wasted his time putting his faith in something that existed without definite evidence, even when it might have helped him to do so.

He feared for his life more than once, particularly when facing mortal peril the first few times during his University cases. He put his faith mostly in skill and partly in luck to get him out of it.

From alleyway shootouts to midnight chases, Holmes relied on his physical strength and agility to return him safely to Baker Street after each too-close call.

When the demands of his body overtook his mind, weeks of self-deprivation oftentimes leaving him seriously ill, he depended on Watson to cure him.

As he wrestled Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, sure of his demise in a watery grave, he fell back onto his extensive knowledge of baritsu to obtain the upper hand.

While he hid from his enemy's henchmen at the Falls, he believed in the physics of sound to hide his giveaway of gasping, ragged breathing.

But when he received word that Watson was devastated over his "death" and the _real_ death of Mary, Holmes became spiritual in order to save Watson. It was the only time Holmes would ever pray to a Higher Being.


	83. Balms

_A/N: **OVER 221 REVIEWS!** You guys are so good to me!_

_Regular chapters resume, and yes, this one actually happened to me._

* * *

Watson began to think he'd been cheated out of his sovereigns at the stationery shop when he saw the rubber stopper hidden under cheap and cracking wax on his newest bottle of ink. Once the ink spilled all over his hands in his struggle to uncap the bottle, however, he realized the ink was of the highest quality. It was staining his skin quite effectively as it dripped all over his hands.

He tried for hours on his own unsuccessfully. Once Holmes returned, the two managed to scrub off a few layers of Watson's skin, but not the ink stains.

"I have patients in the morning!" Watson moaned. "How will they trust a doctor with green hands to treat them!"

"We just need to try something else…" Holmes mumbled in consideration, eyes roaming to his chemistry set.

Watson was grateful for the sound of the front door closing from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson might be upset that he'd made a mess, but at least she would not chemically burn his hands in trying to clean them.

"A salve of olive oil and sugar, Dr. Watson," She explained as she rubbed it vigorously into his skin, "does double duty to cleanse and moisturize." Once his hands became immaculately clean under her ministrations, Watson was grateful for Mrs. Hudson's extensive knowledge of homemade balms.


	84. Belonged

_A/N: Sherlock (BBC) 2010 for this chapter, though the "adopted family" line can apply to any version of Holmes. :)_

_12/8/10 edit - Thanks to **mrspencil** for the info on Anadin, the brand name of paracetamol most commonly found over-the-counter in London._

* * *

He pretended it didn't bother him, and yet it always did. It was just enough to squirm under his skin and set him on edge. He knew he was better than such immaturity, and he could easily cut Donovan down to size, but it never helped that her favorite insult for him-.

"Freak's here." She smirked, not bothering to look up from the report she was filing.

The very nickname had followed him since adolescence, and didn't seem to be going away anytime soon… much like Donovan. And run-ins with London's citizens didn't fare much better, which was why Sherlock opted to go broke taking cabs everywhere, private cabs in particular. The first and last time he shared a taxi with a stranger he'd been told to "piss off" after giving his asked-for opinion, a phrase he'd get used to hearing.

Every time he came home to Baker Street after a disastrous day, he'd look the worse for wear, causing Mrs. Hudson to make a fresh pot of tea and Watson to check his temperature before handing over a few Anadin for Sherlock's, no doubt, pounding headache. When Scotland Yard mocked him and common people ostracized him, it was his adopted family of John Watson and Martha Hudson who made him feel watched over and cared for… like he truly belonged.


	85. Beelined

"Come, Watson, quickly now!" Holmes jumped up suddenly from where he had just been slouching in his armchair, gray eyes sparkling as he shed his dressing gown in favor of his long wool coat.

"Holmes, it's nearly midnight!"

"There's no time to lose, my dear fellow. This will be the end of that case, at long last! Put on your coat and come!" And just like that, Holmes dashed out of the sitting room.

As Watson hurriedly dressed, layering for the frigid chill of that December night, he felt very confused. Judging from Holmes' behavior, he was surprised the detective was _on_ a case at all! And of this magnitude? Holmes must have had a breakthrough to have such complete disregard for the weather.

The heavy flakes of snow were no trouble for the hansom cab they raced along in, even as they skidded dangerously around corners from Holmes' feverish excitement while he yelled directions to hurry along even faster. Holmes pounced once they stopped, arresting a notorious three-time murderer before he could make his move on the next victim.

Watson realized, years later, that the biggest clue to Holmes' life during retirement was present in every case they solved together: when catching a criminal in the final moments of an investigation, Holmes set his sights on his target and beelined.


	86. Brevity

Holmes was rarely busy, but of the few times he was, it was overwhelming. Holmes, naturally, never made any mention of how stressed, overworked, or pushed to the limit he felt, but merely buried himself in the mountains of work before him. Several times, Watson would have to write a schedule of the day just to keep them on track. They were quick to learn how one client could ruin such a carefully-planned day.

"I'm so worried for the welfare of my family, you see. Bertram and I have only been married a few months, and with his young son now with us permanently, naturally you understand I cannot allow any such violent crime anywhere near my own house." She spoke a little timidly, but firm of her intentions.

Holmes, annoyed, snorted a breath with a scowl and turned to stare out the sitting room windows, effectively ignoring her. Holmes had long since given up with the woman, having already extracted the crucial details the first time she told her story, plus having promised her family's safety several times over.

Watson tried valiantly, "Yes, madam, be assured that we will find your attacker."

"My attacker! I was on a dark sidestreet…" As she launched into her story a fifth time, the client failed to realize that sometimes brilliance was in brevity.


	87. Binaries

_A/N:__ You know how people say that writing can take on a life of its own? This was one of those times. I had a plan in mind, that wasn't anything like this, yet this is what's getting published. A sort of experiment, I guess, but now one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy!_

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_

To the officers of the Yard, it was another day at work. They would decide if today was to be yet another day of mindlessly following orders, or showing initiative and taking direction upon themselves.

To Inspector Lestrade, it was another of Holmes' insane cases to break up the boredom of simplistic police reports. He just had to decide if it was worth the headache for his employees, or entirely too dangerous to take on.

To Mrs. Hudson, it was a long day of cooking, cleaning, and setting aside the missed meals and forgotten telegrams for the late return of the men of 221B. She had already decided to take care of her favorite boarders as if they were her very own family. There was no other choice in that respect.

To Watson, it was little sleep, plenty of danger and no food, save for the one sandwich Mary had packed him. A typical case, but having Holmes on edge made him worry: were the years of cases catching up with them too quickly? Yes or no?

To Holmes, it was the greatest case of his career. He had to succeed. He feared what might happen if he failed: to both himself and Watson.

To all of them, it was a choice of one versus another; a simple matter of binaries.


	88. Brave

He was already running at top speed but jumped anyway, tumbling into the trench and managing to avoid a hail of gunfire where he had just been sprinting from.

A fellow doctor pressed a cool cloth on his forehead and face, wiping away the sand and sweat mixed with trickles of blood. "You've got shrapnel cuts all over you, Watson."

"There's no time. They need me out there."

"You know that's no excuse. You need to rest. There's enough men here-"

"I can't leave them," Watson shoved extra ammo into his pockets and reloaded his gun, satisfied once he heard a click. "I won't."

"You've seen firsthand what kind of war we're all in! You're a damned fool to risk yourself like this!"

"It's better than being a coward." Watson retorted, stealing the cloth and wiping his own face before climbing back out to the battlefield, immediately feeling a pain by his hip. It was his biggest mistake to look down; once he saw the blood pouring from his side, the pain intensified and he fainted.

Watson woke with a start, tangled in the sheets of his bed at Baker Street. Holmes was there with a damp washcloth for his sweat-soaked face and a reassuring smile to chase away such vivid nightmares. Watson, soldier or not, had always been remarkably brave.


	89. Broth

_A/N: Christmas mini-arc, in 3 parts. Happy Christmas!_

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, and Watson was alone in the hospital, responsible for caring for all of the patients by himself. Miserable road conditions from the thickly falling snow erased any hope of the nurses coming in to help, and so it was up to the good doctor. He was not pleased with working the holiday night, let alone being the _only_ staff member present. Thankfully, the night was quiet.

Watson's rounds went well and he often found enough down time to sit by a window and watch the snow falling in the glow of lights from the shop windows lining the street. Many patients' rooms had colorful garlands, even a few wreaths here and there. But with a distinct _absence_ of actual visitors, the decorations only emphasized his patients' collective loneliness.

To combat this, he made personal visits to each room on every floor. He was both doctor and nurse that night: fluffing pillows, fetching water, even singing a few carols to encourage some holiday cheer. He helped one old woman finally sit up and eat something after weeks of failing health, and he was hopeful that she was on her way to recovery. He had no idea that Mrs. Hudson was doing the exact same with her homebound patient: force-feeding a _very_ ill Sherlock Holmes some weakened beef broth.


	90. Blur

_A/N: Christmas mini-arc, part 2_

* * *

Holmes was so weak and feeble he hadn't bothered to push Mrs. Hudson and her dreadful mothering away. Once she retreated to the kitchen, he crawled from the sitting room couch to lock the door behind her. He wiped his brow and shook his head, trying to clear the double vision the fever was causing. He had a deadline to meet, and he only had until midnight to finish.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson's frantic yells and hurried knocks were heard at the door, but Holmes deliberately ignored her. He had all the evidence before him, and his conclusion was absolutely crucial. He didn't have time for her fussing and babying him in such a way, illness be damned. His fever soared as a result of his stubbornness, but he agonized over the decision: red or gold?

He couldn't stop shivering afterward, and curled up in his dressing gown directly on the rug in front of the fire. He made sure to hold the gift-wrapped box tightly to his chest to keep it safely in his possession, and at such irrational behavior he briefly considered if he was delirious with fever. His head dropped wearily as he was overcame with a sudden tiredness, trying to fight it off but feeling his body grow limp, the room spinning into a blur.


	91. Bountiful

_A/N: Christmas mini-arc, part 3 (final part)_

* * *

"Holmes?" Watson asked quite loudly through the door, voice at first panicked then switching quickly to frustration. "Holmes, brilliant as you are, you've locked yourself in and thus, Mrs. Hudson and I out. She's told me you are very ill." When he heard no response, Watson decided he had no time to wait for one, and attacked the door with force. He shouldered it open to find Holmes jolting awake from where he slept on the floor in front of the hearth.

"Watson," Holmes instantly relaxed in seeing his friend, looking caught off-guard for only a moment. Watson sighed, seeing telltale signs of illness: sweating, chills, pallor. Holmes thrust out the golden-wrapped box, complete with red bow, with a wan smile. "Happy Christmas."

"This couldn't _wait_, Holmes? _This_ was the reason for your illness?" Watson sighed, laying a hand on his friend's forehead, outright glaring at Holmes for such a raging fever. "You are impossible."

Christmas dinner was minimal: Watson made sure Holmes ate the soup this time before they both had tea together. The customary goose would be saved until Holmes was well again, and they could enjoy it with their landlady as a complete family. No matter how sparse the table that evening, the two felt blessed enough on that Christmas night simply by sharing a friendship so bountiful.


	92. Bail

_A/N: Normal 221B's resume_

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* * *

_

Whenever Holmes got himself into trouble, he always knew Watson would come to his aid as his closest friend. For every accidental bullet or knife wound, Watson would care for him to make sure it never became infected. For every long night of case-solving, Watson was there to drape a blanket over him after he'd fallen asleep, brows knitted still in thought even as he slept. And on those not-so-memorable nights when he blacked out from accidental overdoses of the drugs Watson desperately hated, Watson said nothing in the morning as Holmes awoke comfortably in his own bed, not at all remembering how he ended up there.

When Holmes found himself arrested and thrown into prison, he was unconcerned with the charge because he knew Watson would come. He had no idea what he was being accused of, but he was certain it was a mistake made by one of Scotland Yard's finest fools, and dismissed it as such. Watson would be sure to clear his name of whatever he did not do, and he would be sure to have Lestrade immediately remove the bumbling officer who made the arrest in the first place.

When Watson never showed up to save him, Holmes finally grew worried and unsure. Watson was his only friend, and thus his only chance at posting bail.


	93. Bowls

_A/N:__ Retirement fic, but only to set the scene that this is later on when Mrs. Hudson needed some help_

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson found the maintenance and upkeep of 221 Baker Street too much to handle, she hired a team of young ladies to help her keep up with the demands of being a landlady.

"But what about the men upstairs in flat B?" One girl had asked her as they were all training for their new jobs. "They're famous throughout all of London!" That sent the others into excited chatter about meeting the renowned Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

"They are tenants, girls, like everyone else in this building. Mr. Holmes, untidy as he is with everything else, is always prompt on his rent. No special treatment. They are boarders, like everyone else." She instructed carefully, and the girls nodded before rushing about to prepare for supper. Mrs. Hudson smiled secretly, not wanting any newcomer to play favorites with _her_ very best favorites.

Watson noticed the six sets of curious eyes darting glances at him as he ate with Holmes and Mrs. Hudson that night. It was a rare enough occurrence for all _three_ of them to eat together, but with Mrs. Hudson sitting at the table instead of serving, Watson was pleasantly surprised. He and Mrs. Hudson shared a smile at their chance at togetherness, and Holmes eyed the ladies suspiciously while they set down three steaming soup bowls.


	94. Balcony

_A/N: Irene/Holmes, movieverse 2009 in mind but any version will do._

* * *

Irene hated him desperately. He was arrogant, cold and unfeeling. Dr. Watson had him pinned when he called Sherlock Holmes "a thinking machine." Indeed, that was all Mr. Holmes was ever good for. And thinking never made up for actual connections, _real_ relationships with other human beings! She huffed a breath and started pacing back and forth in her hotel suite, muttering all her exasperations with Sherlock Holmes to the only one who would listen: herself.

"He is absolutely intolerable! How the good doctor can _stand_ him is beyond me!" She sat at the mirror and started applying fresh coats of mascara and lipstick. "You ask the man for a decent conversation, and if he isn't speaking in cryptograms then he's off on the history and craftsmanship of his Stradivarius! How is _anyone_ supposed to listen to him ramble on about any of that!"

Irene stood firmly and went out to the terrace, glancing up at the full moon with a scowl. "The _great_ Sherlock Holmes, ever so calculating and analytical. The man has _no idea_…." Irene shook her head with a sigh, feeling her anger slowly ebb away. "No idea of anything that might matter to a woman…. to me."

Irene Adler hated Sherlock Holmes for letting her fall in love with him as she sobbed helplessly on the balcony.


	95. Bandaging

_A/N: The fight alluded to here is that as seen in "The Solitary Cyclist." Mrs. Hudson caring for Holmes afterward, at Baker Street, is entirely fictional and NOT what happened in the story._

* * *

As much as Holmes had knocked the thug to the ground who had started the fight in the bar, he'd also taken a beating himself from the night's adventure. He kept his dignity and composure until he'd left the tavern in triumph, but once outside allowed himself to spit out the blood pooling in his mouth, which invariably led him to vomit in the gutter. He hailed a cab back to Baker Street, holding the eye that had taken his opponent's jab and was now trying to swell itself shut. With his hand on the door handle of 221 Baker Street, Holmes was ready to put on the act of triumph and bravado that he left the public house wearing.

Once Mrs. Hudson screamed in horror at how badly he looked, he dropped the act immediately.

"Mr. Holmes! What on earth happened to you!"

"Just a minor scuffle at the public house, Mrs. Hudson. An angry ex-lover of our client. Nothing to worry about." He brushed it aside casually but Mrs. Hudson, in top mothering form, grabbed him by the collar and forced him to sit down on a kitchen chair while she dampened a washcloth.

Watson wasn't sure which shocked him more upon arriving: Holmes remaining completely silent as to Mrs. Hudson's mothering, or Mrs. Hudson performing all the bandaging.


	96. Barbed

Holmes' work on the case thus far had been impeccable, but getting to those results had been a hassle for Lestrade and his team. The sleuth had been moody and morose whenever Lestrade had visited him for counsel, and brusquely short with every constable on the case. Lestrade would have written it all off as normal behavior for Sherlock Holmes: sulking in his rooms while deep in thought and sending out snide remarks to the Yarders hardly seemed abnormal for the detective. But Lestrade quirked an eyebrow once Holmes started picking fights with _him_ out of everyone else.

"Lestrade!" Holmes snarled. "How am I supposed to work if your officers _insist_ on standing around uselessly?"

Lestrade said nothing in reply and went over to scold his officers and get them on the scene investigating under Holmes' direction.

"You've all made a mess of the scene, as usual, as expected." Holmes scoffed. "Typical of London's finest."

"You _know_ I ask you first before anyone is here-" Lestrade reminded.

"Perhaps _before_ the murder next time. That way we won't have a body to carry away."

Lestrade was furious with Holmes' critical commentary throughout his examination of the scene, thoroughly seeing red. Once he realized Holmes was working alone however, without Watson beside him, Lestrade understood why the detective's words were so dangerously barbed.


	97. Banned

_A/N: Continuation of the last. Does it need one last part?_

* * *

"I really don't understand what the problem is."

"The way the Inspector reacted, you'd think we just insulted his _mother_."

"They don't even seem to get along that well. I don't care who has _what_ reputation! It doesn't matter a bit if they're at each other's throats all the damn time."

The three newest rookies at Scotland Yard were busy gauging Inspector Lestrade's sound verbal thrashing of them for what they had criticized Detective Sherlock Holmes for the previous day. It was the first time any of them had met Mr. Holmes, much less seen him in action, and his queer methods of working a crime scene made them criticize his professionalism. That, in turn, made Inspector Lestrade give them all the tongue-lashing of their lives, right in front of every other bobby on the beat that night at the Yard.

"And Holmes _is_ unusual. It's not like we got anything wrong!" The other two nodded in agreement as Inspector Gregson walked up behind them, ready to berate them for every word.

"You gents had better shut it about Mr. Holmes. He's saved the reputations of every Yarder here, multiple times, and that now includes you three. He deserves your highest respects for that alone." Gregson fiercely informed. "Not another word, or I'll make damn sure Lestrade has you all banned."


	98. Bard's

John H. Watson considered himself of many fine professions: brave ex-soldier, caring family doctor, and upstanding society gentleman. He did _not_, however, consider himself a writer: not when he painstakingly scrubbed stubborn ink stains off his hands after _hours_ of work. Nor when he owned trunks full of notebooks, each one serving as early evidence of stories later published in Strand magazine. Even when he was recognized by his patients as the famous author of all of Sherlock Holmes' crime-solving adventures, Watson called his writing "only a hobby," and accepted their praises with a well-mannered murmur of embarrassed thanks.

When Holmes was in a congratulatory mood, which was rarely at best, he would often tell Watson that such downplaying of his true talent was denying the world the next great author. But at this Watson felt deeply ashamed of himself for even _attempting_ to write like the greats he admired. He was no poet, and certainly no prize-winner. What had started as careful note-taking during cases soon evolved into the detective's true fame, with Watson's mere tagalong notoriety as faithful biographer.

In looking fondly through his leather-bound collection of Shakespeare's complete works, a kindhearted gift from Holmes for no solicited reason other than Watson's desire to treasure it, Watson hoped his writing would someday be as highly regarded as the Bard's.


	99. Baroque

_A/N: I have returned, after my own Great Hiatus, and suffice it to say that while I dropped off the map for quite a while, I have returned with a new spirit and vitality to the 221B series._

_For this chapter, you need only know this: **Baroque: (adj.) elaborately decorated, ornate**_

* * *

Watson had told him a hundred times over how his obsession over his work could easily become dangerous. Holmes often became blinded in the pursuit of his work dutifully holding up justice, and this time was no different. Except for the glaring and undeniable fact of how he had pushed Watson completely aside and was going at it alone, and _had_ been, for weeks now. Sleepless nights of turning theories over and over in his head. Too much cocaine, far too much even for his own liking, but necessary for a distraction. Lestrade and the force having abandoned him, questioning his logic and, secretly, his sanity. No Watson. No answers, either.

Reaching into the Persian slipper for the tobacco concealed within, Holmes smoothed over the bowl of his pipe with the pad of his thumb. Suddenly, what was concealed so deeply within came sharply into focus; Holmes took off running.

Despite his superior observations and deductions, Holmes sometimes missed the smaller details in his search for the bigger picture. He chided himself for overlooking the obvious, now having earned him solving the case, albeit too late. A secret vault loaded with Her Majesty's finest jewels, hiding behind a painting which was, much like his now disappeared client-turned-criminal and, Holmes realized, his own self-justification for his treatment of Watson, so _falsely_ baroque.


	100. Bride

Ever since his engagement to Mary, Holmes had observed Watson as nothing but joyful, emotionally and physically. His smiles came freely, his laughter more hearty, his good moods plentiful and his bad moods nonexistent. His limp was not so pronounced, not even in the rain, and he didn't hold his shoulders so tensely while he bore the weight of his stressful practice upon them. And Holmes was happy that his best friend was happy, for Holmes would never stoop so low as to be jealous of a friend's incredibly good fortune.

It was Mary he hated for stealing _his_ Watson away.

When Holmes called on Watson, mostly for a case but sometimes for companionship, his friend was usually preoccupied: tea with Mary, dinner with Mary, the park or the opera or simply just _being_ with Mary. Watson became less concerned with cases and more concerned with _her_. Holmes always assumed that Watson would miss the thrill and come back searching for their adventures together, but Holmes found himself alone time after time. Nothing distracted him from the realization that crushed his spirit: his so-called friend would abandon their years-long friendship just for the chance of a normal life _without_ associating with Sherlock Holmes. And for that foul inspiration, which he _knew_ to be Mary's doing, Holmes hated Watson's eager young bride.


	101. Banished

_A/N: No long explanation, no Great Hiatus, no abandoning the series. I am committed, though undisciplined, to this series and my overall creative writing. I can't remember all the times I've told myself I'd write every single day and can hardly even finish out the week. *sigh* My happy explanation is this: things have greatly changed for me as well._

* * *

**_From the diary of Dr. John Watson:_**

Things have changed since those summer months when I was still a tenant of 221B Baker Street. I have become a married man, and embarked on the happiest life I've ever known with darling Mary at my side. My patient load, while not actually any less than before, seems considerably lighter now that I have someone devoted to share my life with. Finally, I am free of the insane ramblings, obsessive deductions, midnight wild goose chases, and constant personal probing just to satisfy one of Holmes' cerebral itches. Finally, a life of normalcy without him. I must admit, it seems strange… without him. Holmes did always make life interesting and entertaining, even if he did drive me to madness on several occasions. But a life without him and his cases is what Mary and I need for right now. We need normalcy until we have our own family rhythm settled, the two of us. Holmes, through his own stubborn doing, is left behind me now.

**_Observations by Sherlock Holmes:_**

He left with such finality in his "goodbye," ready and willing to accept his domestic life of mediocrity. He threw away our years-long friendship under the pretense of needing to move on. Perhaps, then, I never really knew him. In my mind, he is banished.


	102. Boss

Perhaps it would have been sadder if the man were married, with a family, and close friends to have dinner with every now and again. But he was a newly hired nobody, ready and eager to prove himself on his very first assignment as a full-time police officer. He was fresh-faced and willing to learn, a quick study who was sharp and observant. Holmes would have enjoyed working with him.

First Lestrade fired him, for an honest mistake. Not by anyone's choice, but because Lestrade was directly ordered to do so. Lestrade wasn't so much angry as he was disappointed, in the lad's foul-up as much as his own need to follow orders. The boy could have been forgiven, and they all could have moved on, still intact as a cohesive police force. But Scotland Yard's newest officer to the beat was murdered on his way home, distraught, distracted, and thus unaware of the thug hiding in an alleyway. Lestrade devastated the poor kid, then got him killed.

Now, as commanding officer and direct supervisor, he had to inform Mr. and Mrs. Stevens of their son's death. There was no one else in his life: no friends, no siblings, and no family of his own. So Lestrade ruined another family entirely.

There were times when Lestrade wished he wasn't the boss.


	103. Bleeding

_A/N: Something light. And to all you cat people who don't believe me on this one (AKA cats are evil), I have the scratches and the blood to prove it. BBCverse for this one, and I will be sure to specify different universes from here on out._

* * *

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the couch with a gentle smile and cradling, of all things, a kitten in his lap. For the last few days the cat had followed Sherlock around, purring up at him, then hissing at John whenever Sherlock wasn't there to see it happen. The kitten was not as innocent as it seemed, and though it had Mrs. Hudson smitten, Sherlock briefly occupied, and even Mycroft's momentarily softened look of adoration, it stared coldly at John whenever he so much as breathed a bit too loudly. John knew Sherlock loved the damn thing, and so he should try to get along with it, even though it was most likely plotting his demise with every passing second.

"She knows you're afraid of her, John." Sherlock mused without looking up to where he stood hesitantly. "Just come over and try again. She'll come around."

While Sherlock scratched her belly, John very slowly touched her head with only his fingertips, feeling the glare as the kitten lay sideways watching him. A few more strokes, then John's hand relaxed a bit more. "Maybe it's working," he smiled, then grunted slightly as she used his momentary lowering of defenses to scratch his thumb and palm. John immediately drew back his hand and sighed, giving up for good once he saw he was bleeding.


	104. Burst

_A/N: BBC verse. Slight Johnlock, but not explicitly so. And, even if not... love takes work._

* * *

John Watson was angry. Tonight, he wouldn't swallow it, ignore it, or push it far down into some dark forgotten corner of himself. He'd finally let himself_ feel_.

He was used to Sherlock's varying moods: euphoric during a case followed by a weeks-long depression. John would occupy himself with blogging or work or cooking, since cleaning the flat was a never ending struggle. This time was very different though, because Sherlock was shutting John out _completely_ as part of his black mood, when he was supposed to be the one dependable friend different from the rest of Sherlock's world. John felt ignored and hurt, and positively certain that he refused to put up with it any more.

John allowed himself to scream his throat completely raw at Sherlock, chest heaving with every breath. He didn't remember exactly what he said, yet all he felt was the rising heat of rage he hadn't experienced since the war. After it was done, and Sherlock had yelled back and stormed out, John collapsed on the couch for half a second before worriedly calling for Mrs. Hudson. He hated fighting; despite being an ex-soldier, his fight or flight response always kicked in and he quickly panicked. His blood pounded in his ears and his vision blurred, heart beating so fast he felt it might burst.


	105. Bluff

John sat back in his chair shocked, disgusted, and utterly appalled at the response to his blog. "So_ this_ is the thanks I get for making us famous!?"

Sherlock peered over John's shoulder, reading over the lines carefully. "If you and Sherlock were really so great, this blog wouldn't even need to exist. The only reason you update your poorly written posts at all is to have some stranger pat you on the head and say what a great job you did-"

"What a bloody wanker!" John fumed with a scowl. "Where does he get off telling us that?"

"You're nothing more than an afterthought and people will easily forget you based on everything you write here," Sherlock finished reading. "Well, John, that's just maddeningly untrue."

"Yeah, and this guy should hear it." John leaned forward in his chair, quickly researching his mysterious critic and finding an endless string of the author's own poorly written and easily forgotten mundane posts. "What a hypocrite! Bashing me for all the things he's done himself!"

John's mobile vibrated from a text on the coffee table. Once he saw the message, he rushed out of the sitting room, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be back when I can!"

Sherlock considered John's beckoning laptop and decided he'd do the honor_ himself_ of calling the author's bluff.

* * *

_A/N: This happened to me tonight. My only regret is that I've just now discovered it. I am accused of making "claims, choices, and glaring grammatical failures" by someone who has had enough interest to search my writing, yet admits to not having read past page 1 of this series and criticizing me so based solely on Chapter 1 of 221B. This author also calls fanfiction "not a legitimate work of literature." Yet, this author has taken a college course on that exact subject, choosing to research as a primary source. Well, neither is this essay a legitimate piece of literature; it's pompous drivel. And I went to college, too, so I can say that. _

_I'm grateful to have readers who, unlike this elitist hypocrite, appreciate my writing. I'm lucky enough to even have met a fan of my fanfiction out in the real world. Please, my darling readers, continue to lift my spirits. Your reviews always inspire me. I promise to you to keep up on this series more regularly, and make it my only project, until its completion._


	106. Blend

_Many thanks to Cara M. over at Adagio Teas for creating the John Watson blend, plus MANY others, many of which help me to sleep at night and then endure 5 a.m. commutes every day. I am often heading off to bed with The Woman. ;)_

_Dear readers, I've missed you all madly. I'm happy to report I have been published in a book coming out later this year! ~DZ~_

* * *

On a very rare afternoon when 221B was Sherlock-free and John had a chance to relax, he decided to indulge in some tea to go along with the tranquil silence. As John set out his favorite mug and clicked on the electric kettle, he opened the cupboard, hoping the cream in the fridge hadn't gone bad yet from whatever weird array of Sherlock's experiments he was bound to find.

He had a bigger problem: Sherlock had used up all the tea. At least he'd had the decency to leave a note behind: _Lemon - no reaction; Peppermint - 1 minute, 5 seconds; Orange Pekoe - 48 seconds._ John sighed heavily as he balled up the missing tea inventory, knitting his brows in frustration and a now-looming frustration headache. John's tea_, all_ of it,had been wasted on Sherlock's pointless experiments. He glared at the chemistry set sitting on the small table by the kitchen window, as if it were to blame instead of his aggravating flatmate. Although, perhaps John would do some experimenting of his own... "Mrs. Hudson!"

45 minutes later, John lifted the lab goggles to rest on his forehead and removed the thick rubber gloves, raising his tea mug gently to breathe in the steam. He'd combined cinnamon, Earl Grey, and green tea into perfection: the John Watson blend.


	107. Beginning

_To my best friend of 11-ish years, who was able to forgive **my** own year-long hiatus where I lost myself to find another. Thank you, "Maggie."_

* * *

"So we're just going to sit here and drink tea?" Sherlock asked after a prolonged silence of sitting in the diner booth by the front windows.

"Yep." This was going to be on John's terms.

"After all that?" Sherlock was referring to the screaming match and broken objects littering the carpets of 221B.

"We'll clean it up." John assured, putting special emphasis on his next sip of tea from the mug and pointedly staring out the window. "And I've had enough of tea by myself at home, anyway, over the last few years." John had now exhausted all of Sherlock's _obvious_ questions. The only one left was the one they both really wanted answered.

"So… we're both ignoring it, then?"

John kept his shock well-hidden and his smirk to himself. It was the first time Sherlock had admitted his hiatus in the entire afternoon they'd had so far together. This was Sherlock being vulnerable.

"If you came back after all this time, then it must have been important." John said, simply. And while he pretended not to, he really did see Sherlock's momentary smile of gratitude. John met Sherlock's gaze for the first time since they'd entered over an hour ago, finally smiling and softening a little at seeing his friend again.

They would start over again, just like the beginning.


	108. Bullets

_Inspired by THE WORST end-of-the-year faculty meeting, ever. Seriously, who discusses school shootings when all the teachers can think about is summer? I felt nauseous and uncomfortable for the rest of the night and thus, empathized with PTSD-plagued John to bring about this. The best part about summer being here? I have ALL THE TIME to write again! Be on the lookout for more 221B's and updates to "Declining Detective."_

* * *

During one particularly gruesome crime scene, the usually strong-willed and strong-stomached John Watson found himself dripping sweat and trying to calm his breathing. Whenever John closed his eyes to try and compose himself enough to return, the same nausea welled up in him again as the memories he thought long buried suddenly came flooding back.

He was new to the battlefield and thoroughly unprepared to see death unfold before him. The metallic smell of spilled blood that made him grimace, his mouth watering uncomfortably as he swallowed down bile. He tried to avoid the victim's gaze but couldn't tear his eyes away from the numerous bullet holes, all spouting blood onto the boy's brand-new standard issue. He was an army doctor to treat and save, with hours of ER and basic training behind him. This time, he knew he couldn't: the blood flowed too hot and too fast into the dirt underneath his knees, mixed with tears of pain from the fast-fading recruit. John prayed to God that there was a family at home to collect the dog tags and hold a memorial.

Just as the boy was ready to plead with John and God for his life, Sherlock shook John gently out of the hallucination, understanding without words. Here in reality, John no longer answered to a hail of bullets.


End file.
